A BeeKeeper's Diary
by holmeswriter
Summary: While spending a summer with antagonistic relatives, Holmes is introduced to a bright, shy young woman and a series of drownings, ending with a violent & tragic twist. A pre- and post-canonical look at Holmes and characters in his life, for serious fans.
1. Prologue

Over the course of a lifetime in this world, we gain one essential and valuable commodity: knowledge.

The mind is everything. It is a diary, a library, a gallery of our experiences; it is our only true possession.

– "The Book of Life"  
Magazine article (anonymous), 1881

PROLOGUE

The old grand piano in the front parlour is a curious object. No one in my family ever knew how to play it, although my mother made a half-hearted attempt to learn a song or two when I was a tiny girl in hair-ribbons and ruffled skirts. I never had children of my own, and no nieces or nephews ever showed an interest in it. Its yellowed, cracked ivory keys lay untouched. The bench existed only as a crutch for conversation, and the closed lid merely functioned as a magnet for family memorabilia. The photographs are there still; frozen faces behind dusty glass lean precariously over the scuffed mahogany, but the conversations are gone. I am now the sole inhabitant of this sombre house, save for one other lonesome, reluctant tenant: the ghost of a man long dead, but not yet at rest.

The spirit of this man is well-known, but his intentions have been too long unknown. To those with fond memories of his character, this appellation may be regarded as a treasured relic from the past; to me, however, this ghostly aberration now tirelessly possesses too many of my thoughts. He was always a part of my grandfather's home, in name spoken and in influence felt, if never in person, at least not to my knowledge. His name was always known to me, although I never knew what lay behind it. And now, as my weary eyes scan the dusty parlour, he is omnipresent -- not just as a long-ago, far-away myth in my grandfather's books (and in too many books to follow), or as a black-and-white caricature on a distorted movie screen, or as a serio-comic figure inserted into any imaginable circumstance -- but as a palpable presence in my family's gently crumbling home. His voice, which I never heard in life, whispers in my inner ear. After the greater part of one hundred years, and as the 21st century looms before us, Mr. Holmes is speaking from beyond his modest Sussex grave.

Yes, it is the Sherlock Holmes to whom I refer, the tireless detective with cap, pipe and lens, forever roaming in search of answers to improbable questions. It sounds faintly amusing, I know. Please restrain your laughter if you are so inclined; I don't mind the bemusement (I've gotten it all my life) but I do mind a dismissive attitude. This is not a ghost story, although it does involve the presence of a dead man--several dead men, in fact. My anxiety has been augmented, I'm sure, by too many lonely nights watching manipulative and maniacal television shows, and perhaps I have inherited my grandfather's sense of the melodramatic, but I am prepared to defend my Holmesian haunting with a few words of explanation.

When I was a young lady, the spectre of Mr. Holmes often hovered around the edges of family conversations, although I could never be certain if this haunting was of a friendly or unfriendly nature. My older relatives spoke his name quietly and rarely, as though to conjure it loudly or often might rankle the man's spiritual residue. The leather-bound Holmesian adventures sat dutifully preserved on a high bookshelf, peering over the parlour, frosted with undisturbed dust. On occasion my father would refer to his father's "famous stories" with the slightest touch of pride and then swiftly change the subject, as though something in these tales (or their protagonist) struck him as distasteful. Many faded photographs of my departed grandfather rested on the silent grand piano--the pleasant, upstanding countenance of Dr. and Mrs. John H. Watson and family--but there were none of Sherlock Holmes. Not one. It was as if his image, like that of a vampire, could not appear on film.

His words, however, could appear on paper. Across from the piano, mounted on a mouldy, smoke-stained wall near the fireplace, hangs a modest letter in an incongruous art-deco frame. The year is not specified but the yellow-brown paper shows the age of nearly a century, and appears to owe its preservation to the sandwich of glass and paperboard holding it together. The letter's most remarkable feature is not its age, however, but the perfectly typewritten words covering less than half of the sheet, without a single error or misalignment to mar its stolid face.

-#-

"Woodbury", 5 May

Dear Watson,

The mild weather here on the Coast has been most enticing over the past weeks, and I have passed the majority of my hours enjoying the wonders of nature and have spent very little time indoors. However, I felt I could not let another day go by without writing to express my appreciation for your assistance in handling my late brother's estate. Your sacrifice of time and effort was quite 'beyond the call of duty', shall we say, and my grateful thanks are long overdue.

I hope that my request did not inconvenience you unduly, and will not in the future. Again you have my gratitude for your unquestioning co-operation.

signed S. H.

-#-

If I practice a touch of Holmesian logic, I find that lifting this curious piece of correspondence shows a nearly pristine square of wallpaper underneath, which suggests that the letter has not been moved from this spot since the day of its glorification on the wall many, many decades ago. And if I search the depths of my memory, I find that my first reaction to this curio was a childish disinterest; later, in my teen years, a curious incomprehension; and, as an adult, mystified disdain at the place of high esteem this unremarkable letter held in the parlour of the Watson home. This epistle was never discussed in my presence, and, of course, I never cared to ask. I could only surmise that Grandfather must have regarded Mr. Holmes with all the blind devotion and loyalty of Dandy Dinmont's dog. Now, I know that there is more -- much more -- behind this letter than an unfaded patch of wallpaper.

Curiously, my grandfather does not haunt these rooms. Any faded memory I have of my aged grandfather is nothing more than a creased face, a fluff of white hair, and a quiet, contemplative expression framed with thick spectacles, hidden behind a book in front of the fire. My more vivid memories are of the young man I never met: the narrator of incredible stories, participant in endless adventures, the observer of the consummate observer. This Dr. Watson was altogether different from the sepia photos and the shrivelled old man of my infancy; he was energetic, adventurous, and constantly bounding beside the great Mr. Holmes like a panting bloodhound at its master's foot. These two characters were virtually without families save for a briefly-mentioned aunt, wife or brother; one was an orphan, the other seemingly so. Life was essentially one foxhunt after another and everything else paled beside the thrill of the chase. Families, I suppose, could be terribly inconvenient when one is dashing around trying to pin down an evasive mystery.

Like Dr. Watson, I don't have much to say about my family, and these few words will suffice. My memories of this house are not as warm as I wish they could be, but I have no tragic tales to tell and no major complaints to make. My feelings of vague disconnection from all of my family members may be just as much my fault as theirs. Further details of my life are insignificant; I will just say that I am no longer a young woman, and the years are shorter than they once were. I make no claim to be a writer of Grandfather's stature and I certainly don't plan to follow in his footsteps, since I have nothing to gain from stepping into the spotlight; I simply want to relieve my conscience by sharing what I know about the man haunting my house, this fabled, fantastic detective whom everyone knows -- or rather, believes that they know.

Well, as it turns out, I now know more about him than anyone else alive. That distant figure is no longer distant – it breathes down my neck when I sit in the parlour, staring aimlessly across the mute piano. In my mind, the greatest mystery surrounding Mr. Sherlock Holmes was always Mr. Sherlock Holmes; now, the solution gnaws at my insides. I cannot rest comfortably with this solution locked in my heart.

It is possible that, by committing this act of writing, I have more of my grandfather in me than I thought. Perhaps solving a mystery is not enough--maybe one must share the experience with others to make the solution meaningful. Shared experience has a way of bringing solace to the suffering, or so I am led to understand. I desperately hope that this is true.

-#-

In 1994 my father passed away and left to me the rambling home of my childhood, which was filled to the brim with well-worn furniture, fine antique furnishings, and dust of Edwardian origin. Father's final request was that I should also receive ownership of his father's remaining personal possessions, and his testament sternly indicated that I was to keep all of these items in the family, with no exceptions. With my head still throbbing from my flight from New York across the too-wide Atlantic, I was duly provided with keys to these mysterious treasures, led up the third staircase, and presented with two large steamer trunks hidden away in the web-laced corners of the attic.

Yes, there they sat; authentic antique trunks, filled with unknown relics, colourless from layers of dust. I could not contain a burst of nervous laughter at the banality of my situation. Was I now the owner of untold journals, unpublished chronicles, unspoken stories from the hand of Dr. Watson? I am not a person who takes things lightly, but the responsibility was overwhelming, and washed my heart with anxiety. My father attached great importance and value to these trunks...could they contain some long-secret, revelatory truth? Or could this be a practical joke?

Either way, the joke was on me. It became clearly evident, as I peered over the musty, crumbling papers, that my grandfather's venerable trunks appeared to include nothing of any interest whatsoever, at least not to anyone with any sense. Sentimental value, I supposed, if you consider old medical books, dead patient's records, and crusty legal documents to be precious and heart-warming. I was unsure whether to feel relief or disappointment; I felt only a faint nausea swimming through my nerves, perhaps the direct result of jet lag. I left the trunks undisturbed in their resting place, and removed nothing but my empty heart from the deserted house.

When the dust of the funeral had settled and my long summer vacation rolled around again, I decided to spend some time facing the mess left behind; I took yet another stifling flight over the ocean and entrenched myself for two weeks in the old house. The once peaceful neighbourhood was now smack in the middle of an overgrown, swarming London suburb, and the three ancient trees in the back garden were the only ones remaining in the entire street, like a Victorian oasis. It was still a calm, quaint place, good for a contemplative holiday, but with little practical use. Sitting in a creaking armchair, watching the traffic stream past the parlour's bow windows, I could not help thinking of the structure as nothing but a potential real estate deal, and the dilapidated state of the walls, and of my bank account, tended to encourage this view. I was also not enamoured with the frayed, faded furniture and the garish bric-a-brac tucked away into every available space, resembling a tribute to Antiques Roadshow. I was sure that many of these furnishings had once belonged to my grandfather but it was difficult to tell, since my late mother had a great weakness for collecting motley antiques and had filled every horizontal space with them. I decided to damn my father's wishes and sell off most of the pieces, and hoped, by going through Dr. Watson's ancient papers, that I might find records or receipts for the old items so that I would know which things had belonged to my grandparents. Provenance is very important, as I'm sure you know.

The shadowed, groaning top staircase brought me to the attic once again. I pushed open a massive trunk lid, set a bright light over it, and sifted through its contents. I knew that a receipt was capable of finding its way into any possible space, and I refused to miss a single one; I looked over every paper, and at each page of every notebook. The huge mass of papers may have hampered others--a filing system was completely lacking--but I had nothing else on my plate or my mind, and I dug in with no discouragement. After almost a week of this, unfortunately, there was nothing to report except the pitiable state of my aching neck.

At the end of another long, muggy afternoon I lifted out a stack of medical journals, apparently written by my grandfather to keep track of his patients' illnesses. Some of the notebooks were of a slightly different size and colour, and I fished one out of the stack for inspection. It took several seconds for the title to register in my head:

Bee-Farming Diary, 1929.

I stared, perplexed, at the faded ink, and the words buzzed around in my mind:

Bee-farming...bee-farming...bee-farming... bee-farming...

My eyes outlined each letter of the words, blinking in confusion. My grandfather never kept bees--did he?

Bee-keeping, bee-keeping, bee-keeping... 

The swarming words threatened to blot out every other thought in my head. I rubbed and twisted my aching neck, turned over the dusty cover and peered at the unfamiliar, barely discernible writing.

The first few pages of the diary methodically described the writer's current beehives, detailed which of his hives produced the greatest honey yields during the previous year, and outlined his plans for implementing experiments with the other hives. On the fourth page he began weekly reports, starting with the first Sunday in January, 1929. His esoteric statements made little sense; his shaky letters and lack of punctuation made comprehension difficult, and his dull, dry tone was enough to put a fog over my eyes. Even past the point where my brain gave up interest my eyes continued to scan the scrawling text, until, in the middle of the fifth page, the words abruptly changed focus:

-#-

As I have previously communicated, this is the diary that I have left for you to recover in the event of my death. It is imperative that my words never travel past these pages or beyond your eyes. Moreover, it is for you to determine whether or not you will ever read any of the words that follow. I make no request to you either way--it is completely your decision. Even as I write this, I still question the wisdom or necessity of relating these incidents in any form, even to you. The events that I will describe here are like no other case or affair which you have ever heard or experienced, and you should draw no comparison between this and my later, more important work. Understand that you are completely uninvolved in these events, since they occurred in my youth, some years before we first met. The descriptions of these incidents have never existed in any form other than deep in my memory, which is where I desired them to remain--and yet, in my old age, I feel compelled to record them in their entirety. I also believe that you should consider the effect that this diary will have on your opinion of me. I shall bear no grudge if, after you read it, you wish to disavow our friendship and do no further work to promote my name. I would not make this statement unless I truly believed that this may be your reaction. If you wish to spare yourself this dilemma, you must stop reading these words immediately, and completely destroy these pages.

-#-

I lifted the page to turn it over, but it trembled between my fingers. I stared at the page and breathed slowly, trying to focus my scattered mind. This bee-keeper...bee-keeper...was...

A long-forgotten fact struggled to come up for air, and with a great gasp and a shake of the head, the memory finally surfaced. In his later years, after Mr. Holmes retired from his detective practice, he had kept bees on a small farm somewhere in Sussex. This writing must be Holmes's own hand, even a facsimile of which I had never seen or known of.

I read the passage again, slowly. The words were the same but their depth now frightened me, as if I were standing and looking over the edge of the Grand Canyon. I read, and re-read, the imposing sentence at the bottom of the dry, yellowed paper:

...you must stop reading these words immediately, and completely destroy these pages.

I shook my head, as if for an invisible audience. These words were not directed to me; they must have been written for my grandfather. There is no reason why I should not read this, I told myself.

But it took many moments for my hand to finally, carefully turn over the paper, and my uneasy eyes moved slowly down the next page:

-#-

I don't much doubt that you will continue to read, for I know you well enough to know the inquisitiveness of your mind. I also know, from all of our previous experiences, that you are completely trustworthy and will never reveal that which I implore you to keep to yourself--although, in past years, a few of your published accounts did show a certain lack of judgement, considering the unimportance and poor quality of the casework itself. Nevertheless, my friend, I bear no ill will. If you ever realised the importance of complete silence in any matter, you must understand how I feel about the words contained in these pages. If, indeed, you have made the decision to continue, and you ingest all of what I lay down before you, I have no doubt that it will remain a personal confidence between us. It is a rather ironic concept, I must say. Since I am now dead, it would be difficult for you to discuss it with me. You were always full of questions--so many questions. Many of your questions were returned with only silence from me, weren't they? But I digress. As you would if I were here before your face, you must swear, on my soul, that you will never divulge a word of this to anyone, for any reason. You take on the responsibility of not only reading this narrative, but also ensuring that no one else does. I write the following words only in the belief that I may rely on you wholeheartedly.

-#-

At this moment I felt as if ghostly eyes were staring at me, waiting for me to firmly close the notebook, start a hearty fire in the fireplace, and watch as the torn papers burned to a crisp, one by one.

I will try to explain, briefly, why I didn't. The stirrings of shame in my chest were quickly displaced by my intense desire to explore dark, forbidden territory; my noble sense of discretion was consumed with burning curiousity. As I sat transfixed, nervously turning the fragile pages, I could not imagine that one day, his words would travel beyond those pages, live and grow inside my brain, and become too precarious to remain confined.

The pages turned, the daylight faded, and the attic shadows darkened.

-#-

I have to admit, objectivity about Mr. Holmes is difficult for me, and I'm not really sure how to direct this exposition. Perhaps the reader is very familiar with the pervasive and potent spirit of Sherlock Holmes, having ingested every consecrated word of Dr. Watson's published accounts--or perhaps only a comical figure with a Calabash pipe and deerstalker cap comes to mind. I cannot recall reading my grandfather's stories for the first time; they have simply always been there, like the Bible. As a schoolgirl I had felt as obligated to read about Mr. Holmes as to read about the other miracle worker, and just as mystified. Every time I thumb through the chapters and verses of Dr. Watson's canon, I still hear my own endless questions interwoven with the text, all of which can be condensed into one: Was this improbable, enigmatic Mr. Holmes a real human being?

I did not doubt his existence--I questioned his completeness. I wondered, with the curiosity and innocence of youth, how my grandfather could write so many thousands words about a man and reveal very little about him.

At the risk of offending Dr. Watson's ardent followers I must present my suspicion that my grandfather was not innocent of the crime of enhancing his master and his adventures. No one would argue against the possibility of some exaggerations of Mr. Holmes's accomplishments (especially since Holmes himself said as much) and the questionable accuracy of some of Dr. Watson's reports do little to solidify his credibility. There are many examples, but the most obvious would be the account of Dr. Watson's war injury. When he first met Holmes the Jerzail bullet painfully affected my grandfather's shoulder; in later stories, it had mysteriously transferred to his aching leg. Which was it: the shoulder, the leg, or perhaps both? Since I was never a witness to the effect of this curious wound, my educated guess is this: a shoulder wound did not influence the plot of an adventure as much as a leg injury did.

Let me clarify: I don't accuse my grandfather of deliberately writing falsehoods, merely of using selective memory for the convenience of a good story. Memories are curious and elusive things, and they may easily become misplaced.

I realise, of course, that it was difficult for Dr. John Watson to be as precise as his noble subject; he was an admirer, not a disciple. To my grandfather's credit, his focus was not on every slightest detail, but on the drama within the grand proscenium. I also realise that it was impossible for my grandfather to reveal what he did not know--and I am not referring to cases involving famous clients who requested anonymity, or to accounts of top-secret government affairs. Dr. Watson once described Holmes as having astounding intellectual capacities, but with great selectivity--"gaps and holes"--in his knowledge. Looking back at his tales, I see a picture of a man with great gaps and holes in his life. Again, my old unanswered questions return: Where was Holmes from? Who were his parents? Why was he apparently estranged from them and the rest of his family (with the exception of his equally improbable brother, Mycroft)? Did he ever in his life become involved with a woman? Was it truly his choice to avoid marriage, or was there some negative quality that signalled women to avoid getting close to him?

I will not continue with these questions because I do not have all of the answers, and never will. The only one who would, of course, is Holmes himself, and the only part of him that remains is the written word--the words of Dr. Watson, words from many would-be Watsons, words from Holmes himself--and who is to pronounce each word true or false?

So much time has passed since the stories were first written and read that the personage of Sherlock Holmes has become a cloudy image, like an ageing Impressionist painting in a shadowed passageway. Sometimes, in quiet moments in this dark, placid house, an insistent image haunts my mind: a human figure obscured beneath carefully scattered brush-strokes; and the longer one stares at it, the more it emerges from the murky background, the blurred face gradually coming to the fore, with sharper edges...rougher textures...darker colours...deeper wrinkles...lips drawn tightly from secrets left unwhispered...

It has been too many years since I began to see these disturbing images. The passage of time has only convinced me that secrets should never remain hidden, where they grow darker with each year, but should be brought out from the shadows and into the light. I am not simply driven by an impulse that I can no longer suppress; I have decided that there is no need for concealment of any kind, for any reason. Repression causes pain, physically and mentally, especially for those who carry a lifetime's worth on their back. In this sense I feel deeply for the ghostly soul trapped for so long under the roof of the Watson home.

-#-

Although I feel strongly about my decision to make his memoir available to the public, it has been difficult to carry this decision out. I do not reveal these writings casually or crassly. My fingers and my conscience often conflict as I type Holmes's words on my computer keyboard, and my eyes question the propriety of his intimate narrative darkening the glowing white screen. It is not just the act of revealing his chronicle against his will that disturbs me; the significance of these revelations will eventually become disturbingly apparent, like a phantom slowly materialising in a shadowed room, and revealing its face in a slash of moonlight. Its face will not express pain, however, but relief; so will mine, when all is said and done.

In deciphering and transcribing Holmes's writing I have had to confront several difficult elements, including erratic punctuation, misspellings from haste or cloudiness of mind, unreadable words due to the shakiness of old age, and blocks of writing unbroken by indentations. I have added commas, quotations, and created paragraphs for ease of reading, but I have not changed a single word or letter if I had any doubt of Holmes's meaning and intent. If clarification is needed, it will be indicated in brief footnotes beneath the text, which I hope the reader will not find too awkward. I will try to remain as unobtrusive as possible--unlike Dr. Watson, I am not an observer, only a messenger.(1)

(1) The only breaks in Holmes's writing were the date headings, so that his narrative appeared as a series of weekly reports over the course of the year. I have also deleted his bee-farming statements.

My attempts at research could reveal only a few facts about Mr. Holmes's later years, which were even more reclusive than his active years as a private detective. I was perplexed by samples of his previous writings; most of them were scholarly essays related to deduction and the art of detection, with two notable exceptions in his mature years: Chaldean Roots in the Ancient Cornish Language, a venture into obscure etymology, and Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, a study of characteristics found in sacred vocal music of the 16th century. His greatest pride seems to have been his self-declared "magnum opus", Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen, a volume privately published in 1912, but which seems to have disappeared from the family library.

I found these tomes to be plodding, pedantic and almost impossible to read. Holmes found no fascination in personal reflection, mystic possibilities, or romantic atmosphere; he was amazed with analysis, entranced by intricacy, and in love with logic. My brief foray into his past writings makes his secret journal of 1929 even more disturbing by its contrast.

In 1902 Holmes was offered a knighthood from King Edward VII, which he politely refused for reasons known only to himself, and late in the following year, near the age of fifty, he retired to a small home in Sussex on the South Downs with a view of the English Channel, a piece of land which no longer exists, due to the unceasing voracity of the sea. In 1929, he would have been about seventy-four years of age. His companions were his books, his housekeeper, and his bees.

The diary continues:

-#-

As you know, in recent years my health has been poor, and I have preferred to be seen by no one save for my housekeeper, who encourages me to take the occasional soup and tea for subsistence. I did not wish to share the details of my illness with even you, my friend, because I have always felt it is pointless to burden others with physical calamity when the illness itself is completely unaffected by sympathy directed toward its victim. I have also found that to display one's distress in front of friends and family tends to cause suffering on their part, which is akin to sadism and, therefore, also completely senseless.

I know that you do not share these feelings, and I also know, whatever your protestations may be, that you have been hurt and confused by my self-imposed isolation. Let me assure you that any visitor to my humble home would be bored beyond belief, as I spend most of my time walking, reading or sleeping, and as time passes I am able to do less of the former and more of the latter. You may cease to hope for the sight of my face in your doorway, for my travelling days are long over; in any case, I refuse to ever again set foot in London as a dejected witness to yet another stately, graceful old building reduced to a barren lot--or worse, replaced by a mammoth, insipid hotel.

Your letters are entirely charming as always and I regret that they lie unanswered. It is not in my nature to write social correspondence, as you know, and I never could see the necessity in having a telephone installed in this humble place. Even if a telephone were present it would be quite useless, as I am almost completely unable to speak. The last time I saw a physician, some months ago, he was convinced that I was not only afflicted with rheumatism but also with some virulent disease of the throat, and he was rather excited about new medical treatments that could have some beneficial effect, including the removal of my larynx. The prospect of this procedure was not one to disturb me since my voice now has little practical use, but I was less enthusiastic about some of the other suggested schemes. Therefore I have been ignoring my physician as well as the rest of the world, although the nurse who visits me occasionally is impossible to avoid, as she is quite persistent about taking my vital signs to ensure that they still exist. The rheumatism is not a great worry because it is easily curbed; if I find it to be increasingly bothersome I make a point to take a few extra stings from some helpful bees, which produces a remarkable improvement. It is a pity that I was not aware of this effect at the time I was composing my Practical Handbook--perhaps in future I may undertake further research into this subject.

My current housekeeper has two redeeming qualities: she can produce a reasonably appealing soup for each day of the week, and, being of a rather antagonistic temperament, she maintains few friendships. This is an advantage in my position, even though few of my previous enemies are still alive to impose upon me. She may lack the mother-hen instinct which Martha possessed but at least she does keep me from self-imposed starvation.(2) Even so, if you were present you would find it hard to believe that I partake of any food whatsoever. My weakness is of no great concern to me, for when physical powers decline the mental faculties gain more prominence. This does result, however, in my current problem: how shall I exercise this abundant mental faculty?

(2) Rumour has it that Martha was more than just a housekeeper to Holmes, but this story is unsubstantiated.

As I have previously remarked--and you may recall--the mind consists of hundreds, perhaps thousands of tiny compartments, each containing information which we collect throughout our lives. Since this space is finite, one must always make choices about what to keep and what to discard. I am fortunate to have the ability to purge experience and knowledge that I have deemed impractical to retain; however, the imminence of one's demise tends to confuse one's thoughts into an annoying disorder. The key to the attic has been forced into my hand, releasing a plague of abstractions that I consider to be a waste of good thinking space! It seems likely that the only way to put them into order is to record them in ink, and therefore, you hold the feeble result in your hands.

You have often implored me to produce my memoirs, but when one has a biographer of your calibre there is really no need for such a document. I have previously written of two or three interesting problems that came my way since my retirement; I feel that there is nothing more of any interest in this area since the start of the Great War,(3) and my prior cases, whether documented or not, no longer contain any fascination for me--not to insult your craftsmanship in describing them--but, in my eyes, they are rather like old crossword puzzles. In recent weeks my wandering thoughts have stubbornly centred on matters of my youth, which, because of its distance in time, has become as intriguing and obscure as anything I have encountered over the course of my life. I am not a student of Dr. Freud, but from the little that I have absorbed it seems that the hidden memories of the human mind are not dissimilar to old kegs of potent gunpowder in a forgotten storehouse. These memories are too volatile to be dragged and jerked from their hiding place; they must be coaxed forward with care and sincere aspiration.

(3) Holmes acted as a spy for the British government from 1912-1914 (His Last Bow).

I believe--or hope--that by bringing these memories to paper they will cease to haunt the crowded corridors of my mind. My talents do not include your faculty for atmosphere, sentiment or romance, and as I lay my thoughts down I will fall far short of those descriptive and dramatic scenarios which you sketched so well, so many times. I will do my best; however, keep in mind that the purpose of this narrative is not to tell a clever, convoluted story, seeped in flowery detail, but simply to have it told.

* * *


	2. Chapter 1

****

I

As one sits huddled before the fire on a frigid evening, recollections of bright, hot summers play about the senses, bringing flashes of warmth to the spirit. It has been a damp and harsh winter with many a night of half-sleep; unwelcome memories lodge themselves in the forefront of my thoughts, rehearsing and growing until they are unmoveable. A particular summer plays persistently in my mind's eye as I stare into the gently hissing flames, like one of those strange moving pictures flickering in the dark. 

–––––

The journey from the city was less than a hundred miles, but the distance seemed like that between London and Bombay. After a year of productive and astounding mental exercise at university, I was to spend the long vacation at the humble country home of close relatives, whose main attraction was their possession of a deep-red grand piano in a large, sun-filled back parlour. *

__

My estimation of this date is summer of 1874 or possibly the year before Holmes's involvement with the affair of the "Gloria Scott", reportedly his first case.

The lady of the house, whom I will call "Madame" (no real names are used in this narrative) was a greying, ballerina-like figure whose French accent had been worn down by many years of English weather, and who passed a great deal of time outside visiting with her garden gnomes. Madame was quietly amused by my performances upon either the slightly mistuned piano or the well-worn strings of my violin; however, the gentleman of the house was quite annoyed by my persistence in repeating this practice throughout the evenings, and the "Master" would either insist on his favourite folk tune or the complete cessation of music, according to his unpredictable mood. Unfortunately, the couple's agreement on any other issue was no more congruent than on this one. 

I entrenched myself, my trunk, and my violin in a room at the end of the upstairs passage. The chamber was modest and dark but effectively private, with a view of the elaborate garden, and only the occasional thumping of boots on the stairs to disturb my introspection. Both the home and the nearby village possessed the standard benefits and comforts of life, without ostentation, and without challenge to the intellect. Although I was uneasy as a guest in this residence I did enjoy the brief respite from pursuing my studies; in all honesty, I had become accustomed over the past year to spending as much time at the opera, theatre, and concert hall as in the lecture hall, and I had even been able to perform as a violinist in one or two productions--but, of course, these entangled tales would fill another notebook. On any given school day I was just as likely to be staring at the notes of the F. Mendelssohn-Bartholdy concerto than those of a chemistry experiment, and running my fingers over violin strings rather than a textbook on anatomy. My mother always did wish me to be a musician; my father's disapproval may have weakened her musical desires, but it did nothing to dampen my own. Of course, the violin work to which I refer is the one in E-minor; I had not been able to forget the haunting theme of the _Allegro molto appassionato_ since I was fortunate enough to witness one of Joachim's* brilliant performances the previous winter. I was rather obsessed with memorising the entire piece, the problem being that I would occasionally become involved in a section only to realise that I had added my own embellishments. Improvisation always came to me more easily than memorisation; it is less difficult to compose than to absorb the thoughts of another, although, the process of analysing a composition is often even more delightful than playing it. 

__

* Joseph Joachim (1831-1907), famous German violinist of his day, closely associated with the concertos of Beethoven (1770-1827), Mendelssohn (1809-1847) and Brahms (1833-1897). 

When not entranced by the muse I spent the balance of my time in either my room or the library, reading, idling and dreaming, as the young and aimless are wont to do. And when my hosts pressed for conversation I was suddenly taken by energetic fits that required long, solitary walks across the neighbouring fields with pipe in hand. These escapes brought forth external pleasures from the glowing, chirping countryside, and internal amusement from the constant inner voice which filled my head with warm memories, careless wonderings, and meandering musical phrases.

Meals were mandatory at my lodging place, and luncheons tended to be the most inconvenient. Although breakfast was generally unwelcome it could sometimes be received on a bed-tray brought up by Lisette, the maid-of-all-work, only ten years my senior but insufferably slow, rotund, and complacent. My joy in rebuking her was tinged with grief; she was the niece of the former housekeeper, who had been a warm, attentive and loving woman, and who had regrettably passed away last winter. Lisette inherited none of her aunt's exceptional traits; she displayed an insufferable air of arrogance despite her position, and a cavalier attitude toward bothering to learn proper English. At the least, she seemed convinced by my pretended ignorance of French. After a dozen daily table feedings my storehouse of inoffensive small talk was completely depleted, and this endless chit-chat was made especially difficult by the master's routine work-day appearances at lunch. One such conversation with my hosts, however, at last yielded an interesting prospect. 

A typical luncheon required the presence of my pensive self, the gossiping Madame, the oblivious Master, and an incessant supply of food, provided by the plodding Lisette. I customarily chose the seat in front of the sideboard and across from the window, placing the lady to my right and the glimpse of nature square in front; the gentleman sat at the end of the table to my left, conveniently beyond my line of sight. My focus was usually divided between my place and the window, but toward the end of this particular meal I could not ignore the excitement glowing within Madame's eyes as her fork and knife danced across her plate. 

"I was speaking to Mrs. Elton at the market this morning," she bubbled. "You know her--she lives in that lovely yellow house at the turn of the road. Well, she invited me round for tea this afternoon." 

The Master gave no response except for a clinking of silverware. 

"Mmmm," I offered, carefully chewing the Welsh hen and eyeing the strands of sunlight straining to break through the curtains. 

She joyfully took her last bit of food and sipped from her wineglass, then fixed her large brown eyes on mine. "I asked if it would be all right to bring you along."

I swallowed the poultry with difficulty, and glared down at my nearly full plate. My fork swung nervously and swept the neat pile of peas into disarray. Lisette is generous to a fault, I frowned. Perhaps if she prepared less food, then she would require less fabric for her dress. 

Madame smiled and brushed a wisp of greying hair from her bony cheek. "Don't fret, dear; there will be someone else your age there. She has a lovely daughter called Jane, who, she tells me, is looking forward to meeting you."

The bite of hen caught in my throat and refused to descend, causing my eyes to water and lungs to convulse. I snatched up my glass and drank deeply to quell the coughing as an annoyed rustling sounded in my left ear. I turned and noticed that the Master had finished his plate in good time and hidden himself behind the thin local newspaper. He had already moved over to the second page, with his still, gripped fingers indicating a deep interest. 

"What are you reading, sir?" said I, hoarsely, after the water washed the way clear.

"Uh," he grunted, "it's that blasted pond."

"I beg your pardon?"

The paper lowered a few inches, revealing thin, grizzled hair and narrow grey eyes over its top edge. "The pond on the "Smith" estate. The council want him to drain it or fill it in, but he won't oblige."

"Ah," I sighed, quite disappointed. I glanced over at the lady, who cast a querying look in my direction. I turned back to the hard eyes behind the paper. 

"Why would they want him to eradicate his own pond?"

"They've decided that it's too dangerous," said the eyes.

"Oh?"

"A boy drowned last month, and they're trying to avoid any more accidents."

"I see." I took another sip of water and felt more able to breathe freely. "They are being rather careful, aren't they?"

"Hmmp! It's happened enough already!"

"It's happened before?"

"Yes, altogether five boys have drowned in that pond. They dive into the water and hit their heads on the rocks at the bottom." The paper wavered and rustled. "The first boy eight years ago, the second one, hmm, five years ago, the third and fourth two years ago, and this last one--"

"Third and fourth?" I set down my glass. The newspaper jerked and shivered.

"Both found together. Smith says he cannot remove the rocks because they are too numerous and too large. Listen to this: The doctor insists that he has done everything possible to restrict access to his property, including substantial fencing and vicious guard dogs, but remarks that the boys have always come to swim and dive in the pond, and will continue to do so despite any of his efforts to dissuade them. Smith firmly states his refusal to fill in the pond, citing its age and tradition, with sentimental value to himself and his family.' Huh. Council are going to issue a grievance against him."

Something about the double drowning caught my attention, and became a curious riddle with no obvious answer. How do two boys dive into a pond and drown--simultaneously? 

"Is the estate very large?"

"Mmm."

"But if there are fences around the grounds, and dogs roaming about, how do the boys get in?"

"You know how those ragamuffins are. No regard for private property. If it gets warm, and they have a mind to it..."

"Yes, but if it is so dangerous, why do they want to swim there at all?"

The squinting eyes stared down into the paper. 

"Anything else I can get for you, dear?" the lady chimed in.

"No, thank you. He is a medical doctor, sir?"

"Hmm?" said the eyes. "Yes, he was a specialist in digestive disorders. Worked up enough of a pile to sell his practice and buy that estate."

"He must have servants to watch over the grounds."

"Mmm." 

Madame picked up her glass and interjected, "Actually, I've heard that he has only a butler and a driver, and no other house servants. They say that Mrs. Smith is very peculiar and insists on attending to everything in the household herself. You know, I believe they've been married for a good ten years, and have no children." She wagged her head meaningfully, and ran her finger absent-mindedly around the rim of the wineglass.

"Oh?" I blinked, with all the innocence I could muster.

"If what I hear is true, she spends all her time hidden away in that huge house, and she's hardly seen by anyone. But the queer thing is that the doctor is rather gregarious and loves to give dinner parties." She sipped thoughtfully; her French accent tended to bubble to the fore with the second glass of wine. "It could be that he's ashamed of her, because I hear that she's not very pleasant or attractive. Who knows what she must be like if they can't even keep a maid! The situation seems rather strange, don't you think?"

"It's quite intriguing. If I may be excused, I should very much like to go for a walk around that estate."

"But dear, you certainly wouldn't be welcome there, and besides, it's much too far for a walk."

I folded my napkin into thirds, and placed it on the table. "Well, I'd like it, all the same."

The lady raised her eyebrows and turned her eyes expectantly toward the fingers stolidly gripping the newspaper; she waited for a telltale shift before she released her gaze and returned to the wineglass. 

"I suppose you could," she muttered, and finished off the wine. Her usual acquiescent tone was clouded with an air of disappointment.

I suggested that I could share the carriage-ride into town as the master returned to work, and retain the services of the driver for the afternoon. (The village was only about three miles to the north, but the Master was not at the peak of fitness and took the coach as a rule.) This plan was reluctantly accepted, with the stipulation that I must not be late for tea. I murmured my agreement and made a quick exit from the table. 

–––––

The rambling, overgrown Smith estate was some distance from my residence--indeed, quite some distance from anywhere. This area had once been a desirable one but was circumvented by the building of the railway station on the other side of the village, and some of the old Georgian structures to the north lay abandoned and crumbling. This modest estate was tucked away in an entangled, overgrown tract, down a narrow and weed-infested road. From the black iron gate one could only see the silhouette of an ageing Tudor-style house tucked away behind the trees, as a sullied stone fence stretched out along the road and disappeared in both directions. 

I left the driver with instructions to return to the gate in one hour, and my stroll began with the fence on my right side. The fence seemed solid enough; it stood about six feet high, and although it was not impossible to climb I supposed that it would be rather imposing if a small boy were on the opposite side with a large, sharp-toothed dog coming behind. 

Ten minutes had not yet passed when angry barking approached from the distance, and three unfriendly Alsatians bounded to the fence with admirable speed; their snarling jaws snapped futilely behind the stone barrier. I continued my walk with noisy disapproval from the sentinels until I reached the limit of the property. As a test I extended a hand over the fence and discovered that the bite was not far behind the bark; three snapping muzzles sprayed my fingers with hot breath and cold slobber, voicing their frustration with piercing howls. 

I withdrew and moved across the road in order to reduce the shrieking reprimands to rumbling snarls, and I followed the fence back to the other side of the property, the anxious trio shadowing every step. The grounds were heavy with shrubs and trees, some old, many newer, and from the ill-kempt condition of the foliage I was certain that the gardener was not overworked. The portentous pond must have been set far back into the grounds, since I could see no sign of it from the road. 

I found a comfortable rock across from the front gate, and as I seated myself I reached for my tobacco pouch, which had become a frequent and comforting habit during the last fortnight. The act of smoking was not only conducive to contemplation, but was also, conveniently, disliked by my hosts. 

As the smoke curled upward and disappeared into the gentle breeze I first considered the most obvious question: how did the boys get to the pond undamaged enough to swim in it? The swimmers would be required to run faster than the dogs, which seemed healthy and vicious enough to make such boy-hunting sport easy, or else the boys should have to creep through the grounds invisibly and more silent than squirrels. I wondered if there had been many instances of dog bite amongst the local boys, and if not, what sort of interesting method they used to avoid it. 

My second pondering: why were the boys so adamant about swimming in this pond? I wondered if the adventure alone was enough to attract such attention, since this area was not known for its blazing heat, even in high summer. Often the denial of an action can increase its desirability; even the likelihood of injury can add a thrilling sense of danger. Perhaps the boys were participating on a dare or in some sort of competition. This would be rather difficult to sniff out, since my days of boyhood were clearly over, and I would have to approach the subject with creativity. 

As these deliberations danced in my head I was filled with a smouldering, simmering exhilaration, as though the heat from the rock under me had set my spirit alight. The long days of boredom evaporated with the smoke; an inviting, unexplored path opened up before me--

A churning, crunching sound broke my thoughts. The unwelcome coach rattled down the road and approached my stone-like figure, kicking up clouds of dust and thoughts of tea.

–––––

I sat back in my chair, unmoving, studying the interlocking patterns of lace framing the open window. A warm breath of air moved across my face and into the room, a breeze sufficient to exchange the sweet, stifling air inside the cosy house with equally stifling outside air. Distant wisps of white cloud against blue-grey sky drifted through the slice of non-curtained daylight; I longed for a few wisps of smoke to circle up and around my head. 

"More cake? There's plenty to go round," a harsh, provincial voice intruded.

"Thank you, but no, madam," I intoned, nodding in her direction. "It was entirely delightful, but rather rich for my miserly appetite."

Years of practice had left me able to respond to essential phrases of a conversation whilst paying the least possible attention to it. I returned my focus to the window.

Our hostess turned her attention to the chair on my left. "I don't suppose you would...?" 

"Ah, but no, my dear, you know that I cannot take too many sweets," replied Madame, rearranging the doily under her teacup with slender, darting fingers.

"For you, dear?" insisted the robust woman.

"Yes, mother, just a small piece. It is too delicious to refuse," Jane obliged, although her tone belied a complete disinterest in food. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair as she took a tiny sip of tea with full, gently curved lips, then set her cup on the saucer with a gentle rattling noise, a sound which caused her cheeks to flush with embarrassment. 

I tightened my lips with unspoken contempt. This little gathering fully deserved my initial scepticism; I had long since lost any tolerance for social airs, and only kept occupied on these occasions with making judgements of character based on immediate observations. Our hostess for this afternoon, a square-shaped woman with deep-set eyes, displayed a voice of more than necessary volume and a manner of insecure authority, and most of her comments were dressed up in a rather forced gentility. Since three-quarters of her chattering referred to her three older and comfortably married daughters, I concluded that her behaviour was the means to an end, one which did not interest me in the least. 

Although I had no use for the matriarch and her plans, I had eventually found interest in observing Jane's similar disregard for the mind-numbing conversation. I am familiar enough with the glances and shy smiles of flirtation, and I could recognise none of these on Jane's face. She spoke obligingly only when spoken to and showed little response to her mother's obsession with rich food and bouncing grand-babies. Her speech was just soft enough to force one's attention to hear it, and her dancing, expressive voice reminded me of someone quietly humming a folk song. A few auburn curls framed her pale, faintly freckled face, the rest tucked away behind. Her eyes were more difficult to observe as they were consistently aimed at the bottom of her teacup, which would wobble precariously in her left hand. She had spent the previous twenty minutes nibbling at her first slice of cake, speaking tersely about horses, and asking leading questions about the best methods of pruning flower bushes, which resulted in lengthy and self-involving replies from the two older ladies. 

"I make no claim to be a great gardener, myself," Madame happily chatted, "although I do find that it improves my painting. Not only do I better my knowledge of plants and their structure, but it also seems to increase the strength in my hands."*

__

* Dr. J. H. Watson recorded that Holmes had an aunt who was a sister of a well-known French painter; it is unknown what relation, if any, exists for this lady.

"That is quite fascinating. Isn't it, Jane? Jane is also very interested in gardening and painting. In fact, that painting up there, over the piano--she made that one last year. Isn't it lovely?"

I glanced up. The canvas was washed with green, blue and yellow foliage, all swirling around a tiny, grey-white maiden in the lower right. I was surprised by its strong colours, and the freedom of its composition; the lone figure seemed to be swimming in an ocean of colour. 

Madame bobbed her head with practised concurrence. "What a joy it is that the skills of the hands should bring such warmth to the heart. It is a happy coexistence: the painting, gardening and playing of the piano all improve my--oh, what is the word?--my dexterity." 

"Ah, yes," boomed our hostess, slicing a large piece of cake, "and the young man here certainly must possess a remarkable talent for dexterity. I have heard so many wonderful things about your performing abilities, my dear."

I nodded politely, staring at the fluttering, dusty curtains, which resembled a dying moth in the sunlight. Out of one eye I noticed Jane reach awkwardly across the table with the plate held in her left hand, although her mother was seated to her right. 

"One might almost think that he has made a deal with the devil to play so fantastically!" Madame laughed, a bit too loudly and too long, and I could not prevent my facial muscles from contracting momentarily. "He is so talented that in future I would not be surprised to see him leading an orchestra in the performance of his own compositions. But he certainly does not play as much as he would like, do you, _maestro_? In fact, with three musicians here, we must put on our own music recital! We could have a lovely violin sonata, and play Chopin etudes. Jane, do you know any Chopin? Of course, you can play whatever you like. Oh, but I have some charming pieces for piano four-hands--you could play them with me!"

"Oh, no--I'd rather not, really," Jane stammered. 

I turned my head away from the window to observe this novel show of spirit more closely. Jane's cheeks were flushed, and her hazel-green eyes were wide. 

"I beg your pardon, but I am much too...too nervous to play the piano in front of people. I would very much enjoy your performances, if you would like to play, of course, but, em..." 

Her voice trailed away into mortified silence, and her eyelids dropped. She placed her plate down on the table with great care and took up the fork in her left hand.

"Jane is shy," thundered her mother, re-arranging the silver utensils, "although she has no reason to be. She is a very talented piano player as well; she just needs more practice, that's all." 

I watched Jane aim the fork awkwardly, break off the tiniest bite of cake, and guide the fluff of crumbs to her lips. Her sincerity and defiance sparked a reaction within me, and I found it impossible to resist an interjection.

"I am glad that you still enjoy riding horses, Miss Elton, even since your accident," I remarked, picking up my teacup and eyeing its remaining contents.

All movement stopped, including the gently waving curtains and, I believe, the breathing of the three women present. It was the first unsolicited comment from my lips since our arrival. Apparently the remark was accurate, but rather more sensational than I had expected. I looked up from my cup to receive a surprised look from Madame, a confused frown from our looming hostess, and a growing look of alarm upon poor Jane's face. 

"Why, I...I do. I..." Jane glanced at her mother, whose face grew darker by the moment. 

"Oh?" the large woman growled, drawing the word out until it faded away in the musty air.

"Well, yes, I have ridden a little..." Jane's fork shook, suspended over the forgotten wedge of yellow cake.

"She still rides, yes, but she is very, very careful," the woman announced in a voice fit to be heard in the garden, and scowled briefly at Madame, who responded with a slight, mystified shake of her head. "And _no jumping_."

"Yes," nodded Jane; it was more a whimper than a word.

"Of course," said I, with a clear memory of a recent afternoon's walk in the neighbourhood, observing the young lady's distant figure cantering gently across the fields with more than one hedge left behind in her path. 

"I was not aware," the woman glared at Madame, "that you had spoken to him about Jane's little mishap."

The lady's mouth was open. "I didn't speak of it, Anna, not a word--"

I raised a hand to waive off her protest. "I beg your pardon, madam, I did not mean to intrude into private matters. I merely deduced the accident from the existence of the injury, which appears to have occurred within recent months, and now prevents Miss Elton from holding a plate or cup in her right hand, which is either weakened or limited in range of motion. Also, her right sleeve is looser than the left, which indicates some muscular atrophy. She has adapted admirably, but has not yet become proficient at drinking tea with her left hand. In addition, I noticed the favouring of the right leg as she walked and carefully took her seat, which is consistent with a fall onto the right side." 

I took in the remains of my cup whilst the ladies cast desperate glances around the table. Jane seemed hopelessly immobilised save for the trembling fork in her hand; it touched the plate for a moment and vibrated with a gentle _buzz_. 

I swallowed the last drops of tepid tea. "I once had some disabling pain in my left shoulder, which caused me to lay down my violin for many weeks. These things pass, however, and can be overcome through sensible action and mental persistence, which can have a remarkably positive effect." I placed my cup on the table and looked over to the stately grand piano; sheets of music were stacked neatly on its closed lid, showing the slight dullness of collected dust.

"As you have given horses a second chance, please do not allow yourself to declare the piano a lost cause." I offered a warm smile to white-faced Jane.

The two older women sat transfixed. The large one's scowl had faded to nothing, the petite one displayed a hopeful expression. But Jane lowered her head and gazed into her plate, her face deeply, and completely, despondent. 

"Well," offered Madame, smiling thinly, "with such a gift for diagnosis, he would certainly make a remarkable physician, would he not?" 

read_next_chapter


	3. Chapter 2

****

II

The next day my solitary contemplation was interrupted by another over-stuffed luncheon, complete with the latest complaints from the master of the house and summaries of all the town gossip from the lady. These tales passed harmlessly through my ears until distasteful news arrived by way of Lisette, who confided with Madame in rapid French while clearing the table: the driver had been overheard admonishing the stable boy, his young son, discovered hurrying home late for tea the previous evening attempting to hide his wet hair and dishevelled clothes. The boy was given a good tongue-lashing and confined to the stable.

I was mystified over these boys' continued access to the pond and could not put my questions to rest, pacing a good track into the dirt around the back of the stable as I sifted through the problem. Before the Master took the coach back into town I managed to place myself on the back of the carriage for an unobtrusive--if dusty--ride. After the Master had stepped away to his place of work I appeared and, without explanation, requested the services of the stupefied driver. I persuaded him to stop in the main street so that I could drop in on the local doctors and gave the suggestion that he enjoy an hour in the pub, which had the result of lightening the scowl permanently entrenched in his face. 

Representing myself as a student of paediatric medicine I requested information about treating common injuries suffered by the juvenile population. Although one doctor was out on rounds, the attending physician did give me a few minutes of his time; I inquired as to the best method of treating acute animal bites, and also queried about the frequency and consequences of dog bites in particular. The stoic doctor gave the surprising reply that there were no recent bites to report, and a sparse and commonplace history of dog-bite in past months. 

I was dissatisfied with this result but secretly delighted to discover that this doctor had some experience with the deaths in question; he was present at the pronouncement of death of the two drowning victims the previous summer. One had a cracked skull, the other a large contusion on the head, both roughly in the same location; the latter also appeared to have a fractured wrist. The boys were rather scuffed all over, he remarked, with many various bruises, but this was typical for this rough type of boy, and indicated nothing unexpected as far as fatal diving injuries were concerned.

I left the doctor's office with a spinning head. The doctor was blasé in his descriptions--even stifling a yawn on two occasions--yet the facts made little sense to me. How likely was it that two boys diving in a pond, even diving off the same rock, would strike their heads a lethal blow in almost the same spot on the skull--and, ostensibly, at the same time? And, most baffling, no serious dog bites in the past four weeks? Those seemingly vicious guard dogs were either totally incompetent, or rather effective actors. My head was filled with images of a long underground tunnel to the pond, or of scruffy boys with wings. I decided that the only way to replace these useless images was with a first-hand inspection.

As we pulled away from town I requested that the driver drop me off along the country road, as I wished to go for a long walk. Walk I did, but as he drove out of sight I promptly turned around and headed toward the Smith estate, where I arrived, huffing a bit and damp with sweat, in about half an hour. I immediately left the road and moved toward the back of the property, searching for the mysterious pond. 

On the east side of the estate the stone fence was replaced by a thick hedge, also about six feet high, and penetrable only by an occasional ray of light. I drifted along the hedge, alternately stooping and rising to peer through the foliage; so involved was I in my search that I failed to realise the humour of my awkward dance. Along a higher piece of ground, in the shade of dancing green saplings, my line of sight through the hedge was blocked by some massive dark object which lay just inside. I worked a hand through the scratching branches and ran my fingers over a remarkably ponderous stone. The stone, roughly chipped but smoothed from years of weathering, was at least three feet high, and located just inches from the hedge. It appeared to provide an excellent stepping stone for travelling boys. 

As it was a sunny, hot afternoon, I stepped back and hid myself away in a shrub and waited patiently for any sign of trespassing bathers. During my wait, I kept myself entertained with familiar phrases from Beethoven's Sixth, with bits of Mendelssohn's Scottish Symphony woven in. Shifting periodically to place my body in the meagre shade, I found it impossible not to wonder how much cooler it was in the Scottish Highlands than at my present location.

The shadow cast by my hiding place had grown quite long when I heard rustling and murmuring a short distance behind me. A group of three ragged boys appeared, peered into the trees for a minute or two, and then scrambled over the hedge, one by one, onto the property. I stood to watch them scurry away and disappear into the shadows of the trees. On the tips of my toes I stared over the hedge and listened intently, but there was neither sight nor sound of the dogs. 

After a few minutes, hot with curiousity, I hoisted myself over the hedge to observe the rock more closely. I strained against it with all of my strength with only an inch to show for my effort; this huge stone could only have been placed by a crowd of ingenious boys, or by two or three rather large men. When I sat upon the stone and carefully scanned the trees I soon noticed, between the house and the pond, a peculiar little tree-house tucked away in a massive tree. It appeared to be a simple box shape: four solid walls and a roof. Curiously, one wall contained a small window, with a curtain wafting gently in the breeze. 

I then followed the hedge back to the road and quickly strolled to the front gate. Although it was impossible to squeeze my body through the elaborate iron work, I was able, with some effort, to swing my wiry frame over the stone fence and carefully wind my way through the trees, listening for any sound from the ineffective canines. I was still some distance from the manor when I saw a kennel, fenced in with chicken wire, next to the stable; the three dogs were inside, and eagerly finishing their evening meal. I waited inside an accommodating bush for some time, but the dogs were penned up for the better part of an hour. 

Then a small, stocky blonde-haired man--judging by appearance, a servant of some kind--released the dogs, which started to sniff the air with increasing interest. I was eager to observe this man further but the sky was beginning to darken, and the roaming, growling dogs encouraged my quick departure. 

Even though I managed to hook a lift on the back of a ignorant, swiftly-moving brougham the sky was almost completely dark when I arrived back at home, breathing hard and covered in dust and pollen. I received quite a scolding from my hosts for missing the evening meal, and in a few biting words the Master henceforth forbade me to use his coach again, for any reason. My humble and sincere apologies for my carelessness, and Madame's good word on my behalf, reduced this punishment so that I was allowed to use the coach--but only if I were accompanied by a chaperone at every moment. 

–––––

I spent the next two days efficiently avoiding everyone and everything, immersed in books and sombre contemplation, a reverie intermixed with visits from brilliant memories of the past year's events, some as unavoidable and unforgettable as recalling one's own name. On Saturday, however, my meditation was interrupted by a compulsory luncheon and, most unexpectedly, by the appearance of a letter from my violin tutor, with a cursory apology from the master of the house for failing to deliver it the previous day. 

My music tutor, Mr. Carvin, was a musician born in the town and, to my dismay, a man with no plans to leave it; he possessed great talent but was somehow lacking in ambition, content to teach violin and piano to mostly unappreciative locals. His note described in elegant but hurried hand-writing how an upcoming recital in a nearby town would feature his performance of the Mendelssohn violin concerto, which he had decided to include as a last-minute decision considering my intense interest in the piece.* His assumption that I would attend was implicit and unmistakable. The performance was to take place that very evening; my joyful exclamation was immediately followed by muttered curses as I remembered my absurd punishment. 

__

In this case, the solo violin would be accompanied by a pianist performing all the orchestral parts.

My distinguished hosts were not at all inclined to accompany me to the concert, even Madame, who displayed a glimmer of musical interest but opined that it was too great a distance to travel. Less than a minute after her denial, however, she suddenly brightened and stated that she was going for a walk, promptly collected her hat, and disappeared. 

I spent many minutes curled in the library's corner chair in anguish and confusion, trying to think of a way to gather up money for cab fare, or a plot to steal the coach. By the time it occurred to me where she might have gone, she was walking through the doorway with a triumphant smile.

"Well, as it turns out, Miss Elton would also love to attend the concert. You can borrow a suitable coat and hat, I'm sure. We'll leave at six. I had better start getting ready right away!" And off she floated.

–––––

"Oh my, but you look radiant, Jane. And such a lovely dress," cooed Madame, as the coach pulled away. 

The dress was certainly taking up its share of the carriage, as I shifted my legs to avoid it and settled my feet in between the billowing, rustling skirts of the two ladies. I did at least have ample room for my arms, as both women were sitting on the opposite side, and I continued staring down into my book. 

"I'm so glad you could join us tonight. We've really looked forward to this concert, and it is all the more enjoyable to have you with us." Madame smiled at us both, nodded encouragingly, received no response, and shrugged. 

"Don't be offended, my dear Jane, if he doesn't speak to you. He will never chat on journeys. I have been from one side of the country to the other with him and he will not say a word. I cannot begin to understand it."

"That's all right, Madame, I am rather quiet myself," murmured Jane, folding her hands on her lap and gazing blankly out of the window. Her eyes caught a ray of sunlight passing through, and I was struck by the dissimilarity between the deep brown, searching eyes of the lady on her left, and the unmoving, grey-green haziness of the young woman.

I very happily went through the next ten or twenty pages of my book without interruption, although I recall that the perfectly coifed lady offered many trifling remarks with the intent of starting a conversation with poor Jane, who was staring at the shifting clouds, frozen in place, holding every thought in her mind as a prisoner behind bars. At one point Madame managed to discover that Jane had an interest in French art, and even extracted a brief exchange in French from the girl. But upon our arrival at the hall, Jane was stubbornly unresponsive, the lady was brimming with frustration, and I was quietly ecstatic to be approaching the musical horizon of Mendelssohn.

The hall was filled to capacity not by attendees, which were sparse, but by a stuffy and slightly mouldy atmosphere. The hard wooden benches assaulted my backside and the heavy draperies and badly-rendered paintings offended my eyes, which left only the aural delights of Bach, Beethoven, and of course, Mendelssohn to comfort the soul. Before the appearance of my esteemed tutor, we were confronted with a tenor, who presented an acceptable sample of Schubert; the shrill soprano who followed made the murky paintings more interesting, although the mezzo-soprano's rendition of "When I am laid in Earth" possessed a morbid charm.* The pianist's portion of the program, unfortunately, was sufficiently dull to allow memories of the soprano to return to the ears.

__

* An aria by Henry Purcell (1659-1695); from the opera Dido and Aeneas.

I could not observe if the others were enjoying the concert and I didn't give their opinion a second thought, having wisely decided to take in the performance from a seat in the very front. Slumped down in my seat, with eyelids nearly closed, I am sure one could have mistaken my position for a deep sleep, but I find it absurd to listen intently while sitting stiffly upright and staring ahead--as undesirable as to read while eating, or recite a poem while fencing. I lifted my gaze long enough to acknowledge Mr. Carvin's nod of recognition as he stepped before the piano, then shut my lids firmly as his neat, pointed beard settled into the chin rest; his flamboyant style as a performer was distracting and I preferred to avoid it completely. As the piano began its rolling introduction I wondered if an opaque fabric curtain could be devised to block the proscenium of a concert while permitting all of the sound to come through, allowing for a pure, unbiased musical experience for the audience.

His technique left a bit to be desired, with a few flat high tones and a tendency toward noisy attacks of the bow, but his command of phrasing and subtle use of vibrato was admirable. It would be pointless to delve into the subject here, since I have written rather extensively on works of Mendelssohn during the past year, and if one is interested my essays may be located amongst my other monographs. Suffice it to say that his performance was a very welcome experience after the recent weeks of tedium, and moments into the third movement my fingers were twitching with the desire to seize my own instrument and bury myself once again in the music. 

At the conclusion, with a happily pulsing chest and a thousand thoughts in my head, I reluctantly pulled myself up from the bench, and turned to the rear to face the grim reality seated several rows beyond. The perfectly poised older lady, her expression cordially pleasant, rose to meet me. But the younger woman was seated and still, staring at nothing with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, her hands nervously clasping. 

As I approached her excitement became increasingly apparent, until I stopped at the end of the row, stunned by her transformation. Jane looked up at me, her eyes unblinking and filled with emotion, and I was instantly assailed by a sharp twinge of embarrassment.

"The concerto was...indescribably...exquisite," she gushed, and lowered her eyelids as her face deepened to a ridiculous shade of pink. "It was so very beautiful."

"Yes, quite lovely," offered the lady, hovering expectantly. Jane's agitation did not dissipate, however, but seemed to expand throughout her body.

"It was as if the most perfect voice in Heaven was singing," she rhapsodised, and shook her hands excitedly in her lap, rustling her skirts. "I'm sorry to be so--so very–but I've just never heard anything so moving." 

I attempted to alter my shocked expression to one of restrained agreement. 

"Well, yes, it is a fine example of the composer's art. There are many remarkable violin concerti in addition to this one, of course."

"I've just--never heard anything--I mean, I've never heard one before. This is the first." She sighed deeply, with trembling breath.

"The first violin concerto?" I replied, with some amazement.

"Well, yes." Her head dropped so that she spoke into her chest, and her words were muffled. "This is the first performance I've ever heard. The first, em...concert that I've ever been to." 

She released a tightly-wadded handkerchief from her left hand and smoothed it against her skirt. It was marked with spots of water. 

Madame took a quick look at my bewildered face and wisely stepped over, stooping and taking Jane's arm in a gentle, convincing grip. "I'm so glad you, eh...enjoyed it, my dear. But we should go and look for our carriage before he decides to go and start chatting with his instructor. Then we would never be able to leave." She gave me a pointed look. "Don't you agree? We'll freshen up while you go hail the coach. Hmm?"

"Of course," I intoned, and pursed my lips to correct my dropped jaw. 

–––––

Even considering the negligible attendance the streets outside were infuriatingly packed with travellers, and I had almost given up hope for any movement other than jerky, intermittent motion when we finally broke free of the pack and set off down the open country road, where a stream of fresh air brushed through the open windows and the last blue streaks of midsummer daylight stretched over the trees. As the wind crossed my face I gave a sigh of great relief and reached out for my book, which was barely discernible in the darkening cabin. I squinted through the darkness at the indistinct faces of the two ladies sitting opposite, who resembled wax figures. 

"If you don't mind, I could light the lamp, so that I may read a bit."

Madame gave a start and blinked heavily as though surprised by my voice. "Oh, of course, my dear."

I fished a match out of my tobacco pouch and, after the lamp was lit, took the all-too-brief opportunity to inhale the sweet, slightly burnt aroma before regretfully packing the pouch away again. It was also my misfortune that the lamp suffered from a cracked panel, with a piece of glass long missing, and from the flickering, struggling light it was evident that the increasing gusts of air and the trembling flame were incompatible; a choice would have to be made between the fresh breeze and the words of Goethe on the darkening pages of my book. I reached over to close the window but instead found myself examining the pair of flushed, perspiring faces before me, and, uncharacteristically, felt a warm glow of benevolence as I lifted the shade and allowed the light to extinguish.

"You're not going to read, dear?" offered Madame, with a weak, panting breath. 

"No, I suppose not," I shrugged. "It is too warm for reading this evening." 

Even in the darkness I could sense a faint confusion crossing her face as the simple connection between the window and the light failed to penetrate her thoughts, whatever their nature may have been, and which must have been swirling all-consumedly though her muddled head. Jane, however, gratefully tilted her face toward the welcome draught of twilight air.

From years of habit my mind immediately turned to the subjects of my inner library, where I could explore the topics of interest I had been considering of late, and in this case the violin concerto presented a path of no resistance. I prepared to embark on a mental journey, and was about to close my eyes when the outlines of the gloomy countryside passing by the window impressed my mind with a distant image, and filled me with a tangible, physical memory: one which was instantly accompanied by a gently rolling musical motif, a theme which became circular as it played back upon itself. It was a melody I knew well; not the violin concerto, but from a piece which would not be named.

My peering eyes took in the faint lines of the dark, slightly tousled female heads, which shook and shifted with the rhythm of the road. The petite figure on the right, with her drooping eyelids and the sound of her shallow breathing, was in no state to force another conversation on poor Jane, whose eyes took in the moonlight with a narrow, contemplative stare. Every bobbing motion and swinging of stray hair-curls was accompanied by the melodies of dancing strings and sustained, plaintive woodwinds humming in my mind's ear. The entwined melodic lines played as though caught in a everlasting music box, constantly wound by the turning wheels beneath me, until, to my great relief, a name finally attached itself to the nameless tune. The carriage became a tossing boat, and the looming shadows outside the window took the shape of massive rocks rising from the curling, crashing waves. This playful deceit entranced my mind and ears until I was so saturated with its senses, I felt unwilling to contain my excitement.

"Miss Elton--I must ask you something. Have you ever visited Scotland?"

I peered at her shadowed face, searching for a reaction. Her brows furrowed; her bottom lip lowered only just enough to let the slightest breath exit.

"No, I haven't," she murmured. Her eyes stayed fixed on the passing trees, with a single blink against the wind.

"There is a most impressive piece of music written for a group of islands off the coast there. The music is named for the cave: Fingal's Cave."

A deeper wrinkle appeared across her forehead. 

"A piece of music about a cave? It sounds rather dark and dreary."

"Not at all. The music takes the shape of the waves tossing the boat, breaking into the mouth of the cave; it is as if the sound creates a picture, a physical representation. It is programme' music."

Her eyes were half-shut and glazed, and her focus was a mile away. I tapped my fingers together and searched for an idea that would catch her interest.

"It was written by the same composer, the one who wrote the violin concerto we just heard: Mendelssohn."

Her eyes opened perceptibly, even as they stayed fixed on the shadowed trees. The waves of cellos still danced in my head; it seemed so vital, so crucial, that I should not be the only one to hear it--as if this hidden passion remained mine alone, then it was not passion, but madness.

"You've heard Beethoven's Sixth Symphony?" I realised the futility of the question, and continued. "His Pastoral Symphony depicts the fields, the rolling brook, the folk dancing, the thunderstorm--you can picture these things as you listen. This is called programme' music. It is the same for Mendelssohn's overture; the Hebrides islands are literally depicted in the music, with rolling figures in the cellos, the cavern echoing in the woodwind octaves, waves crashing in the cymbals. When I first heard the overture it took hold of my imagination so that I could not forget it, and I felt that I must go to the islands and see the cave for myself. It required two days of travel, and a difficult boat ride to reach it, but the power of the waves, and the massive darkness of the cave--all the while hearing Mendelssohn's masterful impressions inside my head, was overwhelming. It was the most visceral experience I have ever had." 

I looked at Jane again; now she was gazing directly at me with great interest.

"That is quite remarkable," she said with the gentlest, most delicate of smiles. "The young _maestro_ has emotions, after all."

My mouth gaped; I was unsure whether to be insulted, or to laugh. I simply smiled in turn.

"It is true," I nodded, with wry humility, "my secret is out. I do possess a single emotion, aroused whenever great ideas find their perfect expression: it is awe."

"Ah," she retorted, "that one emotion only?"

"Perhaps one or two more, I am not certain. They come so rarely." 

"I see," she said, catching a tiny laugh in her throat.

"My usual state is boredom; occasionally this intensifies into aggravation, but I don't include this as an emotion as such."

"Really? Why not?

"Do you think it qualifies?"

"I should think so--every feeling is an emotion," Jane declared. "I live every moment of every day in the grip of some emotion or other; I think we all do, whether we know it or not."

Her last statement was wholly sincere, and her soft, lilting voice was as insistent as I had ever heard it. I glanced over at Madame, whose head tilted downward into darkness, her closed eyelids fluttering, fingers gently twitching. I turned my eyes back to Jane, and leaned slightly forward.

"I don't believe that boredom is a true emotion--it seems to me to be a lack of it, when the mind shuts down from lack of stimulation. But you make an interesting point."

"Why, thank you." Her eyes brightened, and her lips allowed a significant upward curl. 

"And how do you feel about your painting? Is it an emotional pursuit, or perhaps just an escape from boredom?"

Jane pursed her lips for a moment while she pondered the question. 

"Well, I suppose it is an escape, in a way. I took it up six years ago, after my father passed away." 

She paused in order to allow for the requisite consolation, but none was forthcoming. I spoke in a low, even tone:

"I cannot say that I am sorry, for I did not know your father and have no feelings for him, and in any case, my words of condolence would have absolutely no effect on your continued feelings for him. I hold some unconventional beliefs on the subject. Do you mind my honesty?" 

Jane did not hesitate. 

"Why should I mind honesty? I value it very highly."

I took a careful look at her face. Her eyes would not quite meet mine, but they were open and unblinking, and her mouth was resolute. 

"Well," I offered, with the warmest tone I could muster, "I am nothing if not honest and forthright; we have much in common."

I knew it was impossible to discern in the shadows, but her cheeks appeared to turn a deep pink. 

"You do make a good point, even if it is an uncomfortably sharp one; I must admit it is a solace to drown my sorrows with colours and brushes and turpentine. You probably feel a similar escape from the world when you play the violin."

"I wouldn't call it an escape, because it is an area with its own complications and frustrations. But at least it is a world of beauty and logic, which is more than I can say for most of the human race." 

"Come now, it won't do for you to be pessimistic. You must be positive about the world, or you shan't be able to help people."

"What on Earth do you mean? How will I be helping the world?"

"You plan to become a physician, don't you? It is most important for doctors to have a positive outlook--"

"No!" I scoffed. "I don't plan to become a physician; that is only an idea in my father's head. I am studying the sciences, but I have no plans for a profession as of yet. The decision will be mine, and no one else's."

"Of course. That's as it should be." Her tiny voice betrayed a hurt tone.

"I didn't mean to be brusque; forgive me. It's just that I possess equal talent in both science and music, and the decision is a difficult one. They have many profound similarities, many parallels. I understand both systems, both languages, and I love them equally; but I must choose one, so that I can contribute my utmost to it. There's no use practising a skill halfway; one must give one's talents completely, unselfishly, or they are a pitiable waste." I shook my head, with an amused smile. "My, how I do go on. I must be boring you to distraction."

"Not at all. I am enjoying every word."

Her words were unforced and lilted with a gentle, soothing persuasion, which I could not help but take to heart. I folded my arms and chuckled to myself.

"Enough of this serious talk. Do you want to hear something quite amusing? My bow cost a good deal more than my violin."

She leaned forward. "Oh? The bow cost more?"

"The violin was a modest price; it was made about twenty-five years ago by François Ricard, Paris, and the bow included with it was nothing special. But I found an excellent bow for sale last year in London by J. Dodd, a superb maker, from around 1830, and you would not believe how it played--it made the Ricard sound like a different instrument. I won't say how much I paid for it; it was almost my entire allowance for the term, and I had to grow fond of eating very little for several months. But, it was worth every penny."

"Your face lights up when you talk about it. It must be a great joy to you."

Some quality in her voice sent a remarkable warmth through my heart, which flowed throughout my body. 

"It is quite a joy to talk with you, Miss Elton. I have found very few people in my life to talk with. Talking with you is like a tonic for the soul."

The words escaped like a river overflowing its banks. I felt panicked for a moment, as though I must find a way to gather them up, contain them, return them to their source; as though I must put the rain back into the clouds. 

"Oh, my." Her voice deepened and her face softened more than I thought was possible. "I'm so sorry."

I was incredulous. "Sorry?"

"It is so sad that you have few people to talk with. I have always chatted so much with my sisters and my other friends, I suppose I take it for granted. I would go mad without people I can talk to." She peered into my face with great concern. "You have a brother, don't you? Do you talk with him?"

"I am not very close to my brother because of our age difference: seven years. He has never been unkind, but he lives in his own world; it is his prerogative, and I bear him no grudge. Are you close to your siblings?"

"My sisters and I have always been quite close--well, reasonably so, especially before they were all married. And all three of them were blessed with a child last year! Aside from my dear father, we are all healthy and happy." 

I gave her a direct stare of suspicion. "Or, at least, reasonably healthy. Aside from the odd riding accident."

Her artifice dropped away and she smiled, embarrassed but grateful for my candour. 

"You are so right. Well, healthy for the most part. It is nothing serious."

"I don't believe you."

She looked at me with mouth agape, unsure where to turn. "But it is not a--"

"If it is serious to you, then it is. It doesn't matter what others think of it: if you are injured and you have pain, then that pain is legitimate."

She looked down, and cradled her right hand in her left. "It has hurt me more than anyone could understand. Except, perhaps, you."

For a moment I felt a jolt in my chest, and then the warmth flowed through me again. My voice rasped softly:

"I know that pain, physical or emotional, can be debilitating, but it doesn't last forever. Everyone has his share of misfortune, and we have had a share of it in my family as well. After my brother there was a second child who died a few years before I was born, of what illness I'm not certain. And when I was about two years of age, I believe, another baby died. After so many years I don't remember any more about it. I don't even remember whether it was a boy or girl."

A strange voice spoke: "A girl."

My head jerked around in confusion, and Jane jumped nearly out of her skin. Madame's lips were parted and her heavy eyelids were half-open.

"It was a girl. She had silky white hair; don't you remember how you use to brush it with your fingers, so careful to avoid the soft spot? She was nearly two months old. Then, one morning, she didn't wake up. You never wanted to stay in the nursery after that, I recall; you wanted a room of your own, like your brother. You were always more like a little adult than a child." 

My face flushed hot to the tips of my ears--a most unusual feeling. I instinctively clutched at my coat pocket, where the tobacco pouch was tucked away in seclusion; instead, my fingers located my watch, and I peered into its face with difficulty.

"My word, I had no idea how late it is getting. I'm afraid that our rambling has disturbed your rest. We won't trouble you any longer."

Madame shifted in her seat with a gentle stretch. "Oh no, my dear, you have not disturbed me; on the contrary, I believe I have disturbed you with my intrusion. Please continue, and I will not interfere."

My ears still burned, and my tongue could not find its next word. Then Jane spoke:

"It is late, and I am getting rather weary myself. I'm certainly not accustomed to so much talking and excitement. I believe I shall have to rest as well, if you'll excuse me from chatting any more this evening." She raised a brow in my direction, as if to cue my next line.

"Oh--certainly," I agreed. "It's been an exhausting evening. Perhaps since it is cooler now, I could close the window and light the lamp for reading? I had to leave off in rather an interesting passage. If you don't mind...?"

Madame looked at Jane, then myself, and nodded; her eyes again closed. 

read_next_chapter


	4. Chapter 3

****

III

Sunday morning arrived with drizzling, disagreeable weather, but I appeared at breakfast in a wonderfully positive mood. Despite the obligation to remain inside and the option to withdraw into my room with a good book, I happily engaged in the sport of sociable conversation (everything from horse racing to flower gardening), surprising no one more than myself. In fact, for the entire day I behaved as a perfect gentleman, even to the Master, and in the evening received his stately permission to miss a meal with prior approval; however, like a wayward child, I was still barred from riding in the carriage alone. 

The following morning I secured the blessing of the household to spend a day alone with my music, as I had not touched my violin for an eternity--the better part of a week. And so, encumbered with the violin case, tobacco pouch and small packed-lunch, I undertook a lengthy, rambling walk up to the town, around its perimeter, and toward the Smith estate. Since I travelled the way of the bee rather than of the coach, my trip took me across unfamiliar fields and presented a few obstacles in the form of hedges, fences and roaming dogs, which are problems readily solved if one is in good condition and carries handy pieces of dried liver in one's pocket.

When I could finally see the long, imposing hedge of the Smith property I stopped and encamped nearby under the shade of a large tree. True to my word I delved into the intricacies of the E-minor concerto, if only for a very short time (an hour or two) before putting it aside and settling down for a bite to eat and a thoughtful smoke, which seriously depleted the contents of the pouch. 

A few moments of reminiscing were all that was necessary to fill me with frustration; thinking of Mr. Carvin's performance two evenings ago, I imagined that my grey eyes were turning as green as the leaves over my head. Although still imperfect, my own Mendelssohn concerto was aching for some kind of realisation, and I felt a genuine belief in my worthiness to perform for some other than the trees. 

I emptied the pipe a final time by tapping it gently against the trunk and prepared to engage in what some might naively label a daydream, but which I have defined as a creative visualisation. This very useful cognitive ability has provided exercise for both deductive and inductive thinking skills, in addition to some simply pleasurable experiences. To truly enter into a creative visualisation one cannot wander aimlessly throughout the mind as a passive observer, but must actively set up a specific situation, decide one's part in it, and follow it through as a concentrated participant, existing in an absolute time and place. One must see, hear and feel not with the body and senses, but from within the brain. 

In this instance, after arranging my limbs comfortably and lightly closing my eyes, I created a complete domain around me: I visualised a piano to my right side, the violin delicately tucked under my left arm, a finely appointed hall surrounding me, and the reverberation of applause in my ears as I step before the dimly-lit audience, which stretches back into an infinite darkness. I nod to the pianist as I lift the violin to my neck and cradle it under my chin, take a breath with the raising of the bow to the string and the sound of the churning keys, and face the familiar feeling of the terrible moment--this is it, no turning back, it must be right! With every nerve alert, I flick my wrist twice and pull down for the rhythmically vital three B's sweeping to the G below, up to the pulsing E's and to the B again, running the bow along just deeply enough to create the perfect purr of the strings, tapping and vibrating against the fingerboard with ultimate precision to produce the perfectly noble singing voice, until landing upon the first B again, capturing the intense musicality of the theme in the first brilliantly contoured phrase. I feel the shaking in my stomach fade, and the tension in my body disappear into the totality of every muscle working only for one purpose--the transcendent vibration ringing in my left ear. Each note of the music sounds in its fullest beauty, even as swirls of semiquavers* fly through the air faster than the mind can consider them. I hear the gently flowing _Andante_ not as I have heard it or have played it before, but as it should be, in simple, effortless perfection. During the transition to the third movement I hear the audience rustle softly as they mumble in awe at the intensity of my performance. I sense the floorboards creak beneath my feet as I shift with the light-hearted pulse of the _Allegro non troppo_ and adjust admirably to cover a slight rhythmic mistake from the pianist. I feel the fatigue building in my arms from the supreme effort of the _Allegro molto vivace_, and feel a drop of sweat trickle down my left temple as I bring the piece to its climax, the pulsing of triumph in my veins as the music breathes and speaks to the heart of each soul sitting before me. The rush of applause begins even before I can lower the violin and bend at the waist in appreciation of the great pleasure the patrons have afforded me--bringing a mathematical depiction of notes and rhythms on a page to rousing, glorious life. I thank the pianist with a sweep of my right hand as I carefully grip the fingerboard and bow in my left and humbly nod to the audience, where my delighted instructor claps enthusiastically, smiling with the realisation that the pupil has finally and truly surpassed his teacher. Before turning to exit the stage, I hesitate for a moment as I scan the dark crowd, searching for another familiar face--a pale but flushed face under auburn curls, wringing her delicate hands with joy--

__

* The American term is 16th notes.

My eyes opened and the concert hall was shattered by glaring daylight. My disconnected body froze in place; the last few strains of Mendelssohn floated away with the breeze. 

I stared at the ground. The green grass was slightly damp but streaked with brown from days of sunshine. A small buzzing insect came into focus, hovering above a tiny yellow flower with great deliberation. It dipped and swayed over the petals for many moments, then swept toward the open violin case, its black outline standing out against the blue velvet lining. It buzzed about indecisively, flew over to inspect the flower again, then drifted over the violin where it landed gently, near one of the f-holes. Before it could gain interest in the rosin dust I reached over and nudged it away with a flick of my hand. I swung the lid over and closed the case firmly, then gazed out over the open fields, seeking an immediate change to another train of thought.

After stashing my belongings securely under a bush, I walked across the field with a burst of energy, keeping a quick pace until I could recognise the location of the massive rock behind the hedge. I took a hidden post and waited for some time, until, to my great satisfaction, a trio of boys with damp and tousled heads emerged from within the grounds and scuttled away into the trees. When they were safely gone, I leapt over the hedge and happily retraced their wet footsteps. 

From a distance of about fifty yards I stared upward and observed the curious tree-house, whose small, square window was covered with a drawn curtain. The weathered structure appeared to be at least several years old and was fairly inaccessible, for there were neither low branches nor a ladder to be seen. I then followed an obviously well-travelled trail through the trees to the pond itself, which was nestled within a small valley of trees and surrounded by large, jutting stones, which provided tempting diving platforms. A few beams of amber sunlight crossed into the cosy and quiet oasis. 

I removed my clothes and carefully lowered myself into the pond, extending my toes to feel for protruding rocks. The murky water lapped around my neck, and, since I felt nothing but fluid beneath my feet, I decided to risk a dive to the depths of the pond. I took a gulp of air and pushed my head under the water, stretching my arms downward.

To my astonishment, my probing fingers retrieved a fistful of metallic disks from the muddy bottom, and after my head burst up into the air I peered intently at the prizes in the palm of my hand: pennies, none the worse for wear, and marked with recent years. This "buried treasure" momentarily gave me a feeling of amused discovery, then one of amazed, incredulous deception--these poor village boys were not intruders after all, but invited guests. 

As my head bobbed above the water I noticed with great interest that the tree-house was just visible from within the pond, its facing wall featuring another small window. Shaking the water from my eyes and scanning the distant treetops I saw that the curtain was now open, revealing both windows, and the square of light from the setting sun burned uncomfortably into my vision as its significance slowly became apparent: since my arrival at the pond, both window curtains had been pulled wide open.

I leapt from the water and grabbed for my clothes as the realisation finally crystallised in my head--an almost imperceptible drone far in the distance had become the faint sound of vicious barking, and was growing louder. 

Desperately I pulled the trousers over my dripping legs as I flew down the path, planted a wet naked foot skilfully on top of the stone and sailed over the hedge just before the guard dogs could close in on my heels, and quickly retraced my own path across the fields. The landscape passed by considerably faster than on my previous crossing.

As I caught my breath and waited to dry out behind a distant bush, I considered a possible explanation for these bizarre escapades. Someone on the estate not only allowed, but encouraged boys to swim in that pond. I was astounded by the simple and obvious use of the tree-house. Boys could not reach it easily; the gardener must have some access, probably with a ladder. The curtained windows were a clear signal: when open, roaming guard dogs prohibit safe entry; when closed, dogs are locked up, leaving pennies for the taking. Pennies were nothing to sneeze at for a poor boy; I had snatched up a stable boy's wages for the week in one minute under water.

I gathered the remaining contents of the tobacco pouch and lit a last pipe in the fading light, drawing in breath almost desperately; my thoughts evaporated almost as quickly as the smoke trails snaking out of the bowl. I was certain of one thing only: the circumstances of these boys' deaths were no longer a matter of carelessness or incompetence. The deaths were suspicious, partly because there were never any witnesses, and especially since two of the drownings were seemingly simultaneous, which was difficult to explain--yes, it was possible that two boys could dive and strike their heads a fatal blow instantaneously, or one could drown and the other drown trying to save him, but either scenario was unlikely. If there were foul play involved, what could possibly be the motivation? Was Smith involved, or his wife, or one of his servants? Perhaps these boys were witnesses to some crime, and were murdered, appearing to have drowned in the pond. But why, in any case, would they be deliberately signalled to enter the property? Was the ownership of the estate possibly under some dispute, so that it would be to the benefit of one party to make it the source of controversy and thus less valuable? There were so many variables, so many unanswered questions, I could not think where to begin.

When my dried clothes were assembled and my possessions gathered, I began a slow walk back to my residence, surely resembling a sleep-walker in the grip of a confusing dream. That which appears so simple to me now--a straight and clear path, with few obstructions or distractions--was then only a maze of hedges constructed to insult my intellect. A tree-house at one turn, a curtained window at another, a coin-filled pond another, five drowned boys lying at the hidden heart of the maze... 

Each thoughtful journey would only take me back to the beginning of the puzzle. No answer would come into my obscured and unfocused mind. 

–––––

Searching for ideas to grasp, I decided to spend some time in the town on Tuesday morning gathering interesting and relevant facts about Dr. Smith and company. The clandestine walk into town, like the one to the Smith estate, was not too taxing if taken with a positive attitude and a mind full of purpose, for many sheltering paths and buildings offered sufficient concealment on the way. Serendipity provided some inspiration; as I came across an unwatched storehouse I managed to remove some useful items and move about in the guise of a rough and dirty travelling blade-sharpener. 

The townsfolk were more than happy to update me on all matters, affairs, and happenings in the community, including a few enlightening remarks about the retired doctor. Smith had moved into the estate about ten years previously from an undisclosed Northern practice (some said Edinburgh, others cited South Shields), bringing along his ever-reclusive wife. Their only servants were a butler, ostler, and a cook, who all lived on the premises and rarely appeared elsewhere. The chatty greengrocer informed me that the young cook was handsome, slender and shy, that he would discuss nothing but the selection of the best produce at a good price, would never engage in town gossip, and always seemed unaware of the disappointment in the eyes and hearts of more than one woman in the marketplace. 

Dr. Smith's carriage would occasionally be spotted moving through town, the bulky driver hunched over the reins and cracking the whip incessantly, conveying the semi-retired doctor to a nearby hospital to consult on a particularly vexing case of amoebic dysentery. A weary maid relaxing behind the mews gave her grumbling testimony, stating that she had been bothered by the way Dr. Smith's driver mistreated those lovely grey horses, handling them roughly and shouting when they moved to his dissatisfaction.

I drew a deposition from a young clerk at the chemists who had once delivered a packet of medicine to the front door and handed in to Mrs. Smith herself, who was genteel and friendly despite her apparent illness. The clerk gave a laughing, sneering description of the lady's square figure, prudish clothes, and the round, ruddy face which shyly peeked out from behind the door. I was pleased to receive even this vague description, and also quite amused that both the clerk and the elderly chemist failed to recognise me, even though I'd made countless appearances in their shop over the years.

In the end, despite spending most of the day talking with about two dozen citizens, I was unable to locate a single person who had actually entered the home of the elusive doctor, and I returned home exhausted and unsatisfied. 

–––––

In need of personal reassurance and a refill of my tobacco pouch, the next afternoon I undertook another walk into town (this leave was announced, however, and duly approved by the lady of the house) for a visit with dear Mr. Carvin. My music instructor was also my pipe-smoking mentor and happened to be excellent company, for although he was in his late forties he was still a exuberant bachelor who retained all of his youthful, idealistic enthusiasm. He was quite surprised to see me but I was warmly invited up to his bed-sitter, as usual, to sample his many jars of tobacco and discuss the varying merits of each. 

The small room was crowded with piles of music, instruments, a cabinet piano, and the ever-present smell of tobacco leaves, burnt and unburnt. I was struck by the space of several years stretched before me; I realised that my first visit to this room had been at the age of nine, holding a crude, tiny violin, and that Mr. Carvin's once chocolate-brown beard was now liberally sprinkled with silver. I stepped carefully around the musical artefacts and found a comfortable, sunken seat on the faded settee, wondering how this genial man could be comfortable in such a dilapidated and cluttered space, and how his amiable landlord, who lived in the remaining rooms of the house, could tolerate such a noise and mess for so many years, especially considering that Carvin had a tiny income and could not have paid what the room was worth.

We lost no time filling our pipes with an excellent, robust shag. Mr. Carvin was an unpretentious, carefree soul and we spoke casually in each other's presence. While engaged in aimless, disgruntled conversation, I tossed out a few off-hand comments about the controversial Dr. Smith, hoping for more information. 

"It's seems strange, doesn't it," I remarked, "that there's not a single person who has stepped foot across the Smith threshold, aside from its occupants? I don't believe anyone from town has ever been inside."

"That's not true," he muttered, speaking around the smoking pipe stem between his lips. "I know a young musician by the name of Walker. He's just a casual acquaintance--I met him through a mutual friend--but I believe he's been known to visit Dr. Smith's home on some previous occasion."

I felt an instantaneous inner satisfaction, and proceeded with the hint of a smile. Even at this young age I had already discovered (from unpleasant prior experience) that if one asks direct questions, a person will usually succumb to self-consciousness and avoid giving the answers that you require. 

"Oh, I doubt that he's actually been there. He's probably just claiming a visit for notoriety's sake."

"No--he has definitely been in the house. I heard him complain about the quality of the piano; he said that it was in need of a good tuning, but Dr. Smith has a tin ear and can't understand the need for it."

I scoffed. "I suppose it's possible. I just wonder how you can take the unproven word of some unknown young man."

This remark achieved the satisfying result of learning everything that my tutor knew about Mr. Walker. He was a talented and satisfactory pianist, close to my age and ability; however, his skills were stagnating and his repertoire was limited from lack of practice. Even though he was a sporadic music student his conceit was considerable; he would take any opportunity to perform in front of others, and had apparently served as pianist for several dinner parties held at the Smith estate.

I frowned, and reached for a match. "He sounds like a character to avoid. I have little patience for pretend artistes' who would rather take empty praise than develop their talents."

"He is lacking in focus, which is a thing you possess to an incredible degree. It's very easy for a young man to lose interest in music when attracted by social activities. You've never had that distraction."

"Well, now, I wouldn't say that; I am certainly not incapable of distraction. You're over-simplifying my personal outlook on life."

"Oh? And what is your outlook on life?"

I chuckled quietly and re-lit my pipe. "When I fully develop my theoretical views, I will publish them." 

"I am on the edge of my seat, dear boy!" Mr. Carvin waved his pipe with enthusiasm, and the smoke trails danced around his arm. "We shall all be amazed by your philosophy, and very grateful for your advice. You are certainly the most profound young man I have--never mind that, the most profound man I have ever known, although you keep those depths well hidden."

I shrugged. "My views may be less amenable than you expect. So tell me, how does one become distracted by social activities? Shall I go to a party?"

He shook his head at my droll and apathetic tone. "And I suppose you never go to a pub, either?"

"You are very astute."

"There's the difference, my boy; I believe that Walker never avoids an evening in the pub when he can help it. Now, you know that I love a good ale now and then--in moderation, of course..."

He happily puffed and prattled for a while on the merits of good ale and good conversation as an essential part of a happy life. I smiled and nodded as he described the three favourite local pubs, and I finished off my pipe as he specified which of the pubs contained a most commendable piano. 

Upon departing from Mr. Carvin's room I immediately strolled over to the pub and took a rear seat with an good view of the piano. I waited to the brink of my imposed time limit, but, disappointingly, the patronage was sparse, and Walker did not appear. As I hurried back down the country road, I decided to make a return trip to the pub on the Saturday evening. 

–––––

The announcement of my desire to visit the pub on that evening was met with more than simple astonishment from my hosts, as it was the first time in their experience that the request had ever been made. At the close of tea I humbly suggested that the gentleman and I could converse over a drink or two in the town; his scoffing refusal was entirely anticipated, but I gave a convincing display of forlorn disappointment. The Master's disdain for the tavern was eclipsed by Madame's excitement that I showed any interest in participating in a social environment, mindless and drunken though it may be; her suggestion that the beleaguered driver might act as my guardian for the evening was, surprisingly, met with little resistance from the gentleman of the house. I gave no indication of my real purpose, and as I departed, deftly hid my violin case under my coat. 

The driver, of course, happily slipped off to the ale house of his favour, and I returned to my view of the pub's cottage piano. While sitting motionless at a corner table waiting for the mysterious Walker to appear, I augmented my plan to engage his attention, aided once again by serendipity. My shifting foot met with a metallic scraping noise on the floor, and I discovered that some unfortunate soul had lost a pair of spectacles, which were of more than moderate price but much the worse for wear. The frames had suffered twisting and the glass showed deep scratches, revealing evidence of a broad-nosed, moderately near-sighted gentleman with a propensity for over-indulgence. This fellow's loss became my creative departure, for as I tried them on for size I took on another persona: that of a brilliant but unfortunate German violinist, one in need of a musical engagement. I am unsure why this thought occurred to me; perhaps I was enjoying a relapse of the dramatic predilection that had captivated me in past months. 

I laid my violin case on the table, adjusted the bias of my hair with a few swipes of the hand, and took on the haggard expression of one who takes his beer rather seriously. Any pianist, I theorised, could not help noticing a dishevelled figure gazing drunkenly through his glass at a violin case. 

So it was that a dashing, toothy young man approached me before I had finished my first pint. He had spent a few moments scanning the shadows for familiar faces, but settled for me instead. 

"Say, my good fellow, is that your violin?"

I looked up, with a slightly bobbing head. My German accent was thick, but made with a great effort to hide it. 

"Yes, and vaht of it?"

He grinned widely. "Oh, I don't know, my man, it seemed a bit odd, that's all."

Emotion bubbled in my throat. "Odd? Vaht is odd about a violin? It is a vonderful and beautiful ting, is vaht it is." A hint of a tear came to my eye. "It is only ze heartlessness of country-folk who do not appreciate a musical artist, who tink it is _strange_."

The young man leaned over the table, shaking his head; his persistent smile was genuine, if a bit crooked. 

"I didn't mean it was a strange thing! It's just unusual, you see, for a violin to be lying on the table, that's all. I meant no offence. You are a violinist, then?"

I nodded, pulling my glass up to take a drink, staring into it with a puckered brow.

"Wonderful! I am a musician as well. I don't like to blow my own horn, as it were, but I am a accomplished pianist. I can play all of the Lizst _Années de Pélerinage_, both volumes, and it is quite a piece of work. Pleased to meet you--my name is Walker."

I took his hand with an strong grip; his grasp was friendly but weak, especially for a pianist of some accomplishment. I introduced myself as Mr. Holtz, graduate of a prestigious European conservatory (I was too modest to mention its name), and a soul so possessed by music that I could not be parted from my violin at any time and must carry it everywhere. 

Walker's eyes glinted with opportunity; with one eye on the piano in the corner, he begged, "Would you favour me with a selection from your repertoire?"

I stretched over my beer to remove the instrument and bow, checked the tension of the hair, plucked the strings with the left forefinger to test the pitch, placed my chin in the rest, and froze in my chair. Then I pulled the bow down for the gracefully dancing lines of the _Larghetto_ from Beethoven's brilliant concerto--the soloistic development about a third into the movement. Half a minute of purely divine lyricism, with curly figures around the edges of sweetly singing long tones, and the purest, most delicate high pitches imaginable. Then the violin sunk to my lap, my upper body slightly swaying to the now absent music.

Walker's smile drooped a bit around the edges. "That's marvellous, my good fellow, but I believe you may be in the wrong place. There are a few music lovers here, but they don't come for Beethoven! They want to hear "Bold William Taylor," or sing some bawdy tune--"

"I know a few tunes. Perhaps dey vill enjoy dis one."

I staggered to my feet, pulled the violin to my chin, and started in on a rousing Irish reel called "Temple Hill"; my bow bounced and scraped with abandon, producing a stream of flying rhythms which would set a dead man's foot a-tapping. The half-dozen other patrons all snapped their necks around as if on cue, and stared with wide eyes as if a performing seal had appeared, balancing a ball on its nose. After about twenty-four bars I could hear a few hands slapping on tables and some boot-heels shifting in time--or nearly--to the music. After a few more sequences I ended the tune with a flourish of notes, met not by applause, but a gratifying murmur of approval. I dropped back into my chair and exchanged the violin for the pint.

"Beethoven vas certainly a genius," I murmured to Walker over the rim of my glass. "However, ze genius of one man is no match for ze ingenuity of generations of Irish country-folk."

Walker's lips spread until it seemed his every tooth was showing. His arm came round for a robust slap on my back, which very nearly sent beer up my nostrils.

"Another pint for this gentleman!" he grinned to the bar-keep. Then to me he added, "You won't pay for another drink here if I can help it. What else do you know? Can we have another?"

I insisted, with humility, that we should all be graced with the talents of a pianist instead, as I wished to turn my attention to the good ale before me. 

Walker responded with some keyboard exhibitions of his own: a couple of songs of a licentious nature, followed by a showy, noisy display from the Liszt _ouvre_, which I raved over to the point of his satisfaction. He joined me at my quiet corner table and over a few more pints it was a simple enough task to discover what I desired: another dinner party would soon be given at the Smith estate. Unfortunately, Walker was quite reluctant and secretive about this affair, and refused to discuss it in detail. 

I sensed that a way to fraternise was to feign a casual but sincere interest; I told Walker that it was "just ze sort of situation vitch I vas looking for." He opened up discernibly, and after another round, and a few ingratiating remarks on my part about the obvious substance of Walker's musical genius, he eventually offered to bring me along as an unpaid assistant. 

"I am unable to contact Dr. Smith to approve an additional fee," he whispered confidentially, "because I have been instructed only to receive messages, never to send them."

I was mystified by this arrangement, and my clouded mind could not imagine its purpose, but I agreed enthusiastically. 

"It is not money zat interests me, my friend, but only ze company of like-minded and appreciative souls." 

He happily agreed to a suggested list of pieces for piano and violin, and made arrangements for us to meet on the designated date. I repeatedly refused requests for another performance, and Walker's insistent offers to buy me another drink, for the possibility of uncovering more information about Dr. Smith was pushed aside by my discomfort at Walker's over-friendly arm around my shoulder and his beery breath in my ear. I made my excuses for the evening and slipped outside into the darkness. 

read_next_chapter


	5. Chapter 4

****

IV

The next morning saw me awake in a sullen disposition and reluctant to descend the stairs and face the distractions beneath. This was partly because of the lingering effects of three pints of alcohol, but mostly from concentration of purpose. My single-minded focus on any endeavour has always resulted in a mood intolerant to distracting stimuli, even in my youth, and this trait was only to intensify in the following years--as you are well aware. The problem of the Smith pond may have benefited from this attention, but the good graces of my hosts suffered from a touch of neglect.

Silently, I suffered through a light lunch, and could think of nothing but an afternoon's seclusion with the violin in preparation for the upcoming weekend. In passing the sun-room on my way to ask the lady's leave, however, the shining tea service arranged on the glossy tea table jolted the memory: 

Jane had been invited for tea. 

I leaned heavily against the doorway, squinting at the gleaming silver teapot, which threw a blinding, accusatory sunbeam into my face. I acquiesced, turned and headed for the library to soften my mood with a bit of mindless fiction until tea-time.

—————

The consecutive placement of over-sized, uncovered windows in the back parlour nicely dissolved the barrier between our _tête-à-tête_ and the shining, gently dancing garden outside, with only the roof to shield the two women and myself from the harshness of the wind and sun, and hold in the odours of sweetened tea and freshly polished wood. Quite to my surprise, the niceties of the ladies' conversation on the genius of the French masters, and the pleasing effect of Jane's green and ivory-yellow costume, slowly wove a transitory spell over me until, incredibly, I had effectively forgotten both the violin and the Smith affair. I most enjoyed seeing Jane's tiny smile blossom into a joyful curl as she enthused over the grace of a Watteau painting and expressed her admiration for the elegance of a Constable canvas. 

With the clearing of the tea, however, the fog was sufficiently lifted from my mind to feel the twitching of my bowing hand. As Lisette took away the tray an awkward emptiness remained in its place, which produced expectant, questioning glances from the two ladies, their fingers now fidgeting from lack of occupation and their lips suffering from a drying of conversation. 

My mind, as usual, had no trouble filling the silence. Notes swirled through my head like a ring of dancers around a room: three B's falling down to a G, rising up then sweeping down, pulling higher, then circling around again. I observed the piano as it stood under an arch of light, its lid raised, the strings hovering silently, the violin case resting near the front stand like a question mark. In a burst of self-indulgence I offered a blithe suggestion: 

"Perhaps we could put on our own music recital, with selections performed by each person in turn."

The two women exchanged looks of surprise. Madame, of course, rose eagerly, quickly selected a music-book and assaulted the piano with gusto, spinning out a Schubert song, whilst Jane sat frozen and pale in her chair, unsure whether to enjoy the tune or succumb to the terror which flickered in her eyes. I puzzled over her obvious discomfort, wondering why she would worry herself over another refusal to perform; this recital was purely for selfish reasons, and I had not intended to apply pressure to any other. 

When the song reached its end I offered requisite praise to Madame and shifted to stand, when I was startled by the rustling of Jane's skirts as she left her chair. She glided across to the piano and settled on the bench almost before Madame had vacated it. 

Madame came to sit beside me with wide eyes and brows raised; I could only shrug my shoulders in surprise and bemusement.

Jane sat at the keyboard, her head lowered, her hands folded in her lap. I settled into my chair and, for the moment, reined in my performing focus. Leaning back with narrowed eyes, flexing my fingers, I hoped that her contribution would be brief and painless so as not to weaken my concentration.

When it did not begin, I looked up. Jane was still. Madame was twitching with uneasiness.

"Perhaps, my dear, you would like to look through the music? I have many _etude_ books, or if you would like--"

The tiny murmur of a voice was like an echo from across a valley.

"I...I have a difficulty with my hand, you know, and it is very hard for me to play, because of..." Her hands wrung together, and her head sunk lower.

"It's not just the pain, you see, but...the...the restriction, the lack of motion, that is so difficult. So I decided, then, not to fight it anymore, not to worry about what I could not play, but to discover what I could play."

I could see her hands twist slowly, and watched her gently pull the gloves from her fingers. Then she raised her arms up, still gazing downward, and began to roll her fingertips gently over the keys. 

The recognition was instantaneous, of course, for it was the first movement of Beethoven's _Sonata quasi una fantasia_ in C-sharp minor, the "Moonlight" sonata; the piece was one of the first I had learned to play, as indeed had most who have ever insulted a piano keyboard. I sighed with some relief, and settled back to digest my tea and let my mind wander over Mendelssohn. But the vibrating strings would not give me leave; each broken chord, each hesitant note sounded with an gentle intention that defied me to ignore it. Something in the rolling arpeggios was different; something about these harmonies which I had heard so many times, some indefinable, exceptional quality haunted my ears. These tender notes were so considered, yet flowing so naturally, so inevitably, that they felt deeply insistent--as though behind each touch of a key was a reason, and behind the reason was a thought, and behind the thought was a feeling. And when the low, last notes of the movement died away, the silence was different than before. 

I slapped my palms together in a ringing applause, which could not have been more spontaneous and enthused. Jane rose and turned to face a gentle nod from me and a beaming smile from Madame; she did not allow a smile herself, but glowed with an ethereal relief and satisfaction. I stood as she approached, searching for an appropriate remark; any of the words I considered seemed inadequate.

"I really must thank you..."

"No, no, please don't, it was nothing, really--"

"Nonsense; it was profoundly beautiful. Thank you for allowing me to hear the music. I have heard it many times, but I will never hear it quite the same again."

Her lips did not curl, but her eyes glistened. She sat and lowered her head to attend to the fitting of her gloves.

Now it was my turn, with Madame taking her seat at the piano and Jane in the role of the audience. I placed my feet in a square of light on the parquet floor with the instrument under my chin, just as I had in my oldest, fondest memories of this glorious room. I took a moment to tune carefully, narrowing my focus to the end of the fingerboard, taking a breath with the raising of the bow to the string and the sound of the churning piano keys, and facing the terrible, wonderful moment! With the first notes the strings purr perfectly against the bow-hair, the tones ring in the air with an intense singing voice; my muscles flow smoothly and my trembling stomach fades, even as I shift skilfully to recover the shaky pulse from the lady's merely adequate reading, and breathe deeply to cool the rising heat from my chest, which builds and steams over the course of the next twenty minutes, as if from a long journey. The shimmering notes finally swirl to their apex in a flurry of bowing, and an overwhelming satisfaction fills my ears even before the final chords are pounded out and the soaring, highest E rings to the ceiling. 

I released the last note with a flourish, and stood, exhaling deliberately, my eyes turned to the figure in the chair, searching her face for the colour of joy. 

Jane's smile was kind, and proud, and she raised her neatly folded hands to applaud; her ivory gloves produced a muffled, hollow sound. As I stepped toward her, I could not discern a noticeable change in the paleness of her cheeks. 

"Oh yes, it was lovely," she announced, easing the rate of her clapping to a gentle stop. The last clap resounded in an empty, awkward silence. 

I brought the violin down and let it swing gently from my left hand, as I looked over to the lady with a raised eyebrow. 

"Of course, my dear, it was quite remarkable," Madame enthused, twisting on the stool in an attempt to get a good look at Jane, and smiling warmly. "You have been practising a great deal, haven't you? Now I know what you've been up to these many afternoons."

The strange emptiness in the air thickened with each passing moment. Their vapid remarks were not the direct cause of my discomfort; I was concerned by the words left unsaid.

"Was it--" I cleared my throat with a attempt at humility--"was it not as good as my tutor's performance?"

A cascade of negations followed, dusted with a flurry of compliments from both women; I recall the words "impressive", "magnificent", and "admirable", but these words contained neither a quivering of emotion nor radiance of expression. 

I leaned forward, and spoke directly to Jane. "Perhaps, then, because you have already heard it once, it is not so--provocative, now?"

Her mouth hung slightly open as she carefully considered my question, a touch of blush coming to her cheeks. 

"I...I don't think so. But I really cannot say." She lowered her head and inspected a possible tiny hole in a glove finger.

I swung the violin up and cast a penetrating gaze at the bridge of my instrument as though inspecting the flecks of rosin deposited there, but focusing my thoughts inward. The penultimate, piercing E resounded in my inner ear as I searched to define its quality and the quality of all tones proceeding it. The intonation was certainly beyond criticism. The tempi were varied and stimulating, and the rhythms very steady. Dynamics were wide-ranging; articulations were precise.* Standing in that sanctuary of a room, bathed in sunlight and towering over their heads as both a physical figure and an intellectual presence, it was not difficult for me to dismiss their wan reaction as _naivete_. But, as I would come to understand, many years into the future, my brilliant performance of the Mendelssohn-Bartholdy Concerto for Violin in E minor was not quite the great achievement that my foolish heart believed it to be. As a technical exercise it caused me no difficulty; as a cohesive, moving, deeply musical experience, it had slipped through my fingers. The _naivete_ was my own.

__

*Intonation=accuracy of pitch; tempi (plural of tempo)=speed; dynamics=loudness; articulations=separation or connection of tones.

My index finger brushed at the rosin dust; the powder clung stubbornly to my skin. I felt at a loss for words, a feeling which was not familiar to me and did not suit me well. At long last, I lifted my head and spoke with a voice which seemed to come from lips other than my own. 

"It is a lovely day out, and a pity to spend it all inside. Perhaps it would be a good opportunity for Miss Elton and myself to take a stroll in the garden, so that she may observe your handiwork." 

This proposal was almost commensurate with cruelty, for it nearly caused Madame to boil over with joyful excitement, and I found myself fighting to suppress a scowl at her glowing face and shining eyes as I escorted Jane to the door. 

The air was fresh and the sky was frosted with milk-white clouds, allowing a haze of brilliant sunlight to fill the garden and radiate around the face of sedate Jane, who displayed a tinge of warm colour and the hint of a smile. 

"Madame is very talented," she murmured, as we moved slowly past the burgeoning botanical displays, and I had to keep a close distance to catch each of her gentle words. "I can't imagine being able to produce beauty like this, not only in the garden, but also on the easel." She stopped, looking down absently. "Do you paint, as well?"

"Oh, no. I have only a propensity for mixing chemicals, not pigments." 

I also stared down into the flower bed, observing the symmetry of the leaves and the evidence of satiated, departed insects. "It would be quite fascinating to discover a chemical solution which would discourage plant-eating creatures, and yet do no harm to the plant itself. This bush is a little the worse for parasites."

Jane held her right arm with her left hand, still looking downward. "When I have painted flowers, I ignored the damage of ruinous insects, and coloured them as unblemished and perfect. The way that God created them. Paintings should show things as they should be, not just as they are."

I took a slow, deep breath, pretending to revel in the piquant fragrance, while attempting to shake the uncomfortable, creeping feeling that had come over me. 

"And do you have any plans for your artistic talent?"

"Plans?" 

"You do plan to continue painting, do you not?" 

Her head gave the slightest shake, and my voice rose.

"Now, don't even think of raising a protest--you have no excuse, right hand be damned. Say you will continue to paint. Say it!"

A genuine smile threatened to crack her face. "I will continue to paint."

"Now, then, that's better. I know you have suffered a serious injury, but you are on the right track; you have admitted your pain so that you can better assess it, and so you can determine how to work around it. Perhaps you could learn to paint left-handed. Perhaps you could hold the brush in your mouth--"

She clapped a hand over her lips to stifle a burst of laughter. "Oh, stop!" 

"I know that you have an inextinguishable artist's passion, even if you do keep it well-hidden beneath that muted exterior." 

Her freckles were washed with pink. "And you as well?" she queried.

"What do you mean?"

"Your life seems to be guided by passion. Passion for music, and for ideas--for understanding things that other people don't understand."

"Ah-ha. Like yourself, for instance." I peered at her, mockingly. "You are quite mysterious in your own way."

Jane ignored my gaze, her eyes fixed on the flower beds. "It is so astounding that you, or anyone, can play an entire violin concerto from memory. All of those notes; it's quite beyond me. How do you do it?"

Her remark struck me as rather an off-handed compliment, but a sincere one. 

"Basically, it is a matter of analysing the form of a piece; starting with phrases, linking them together, absorbing the harmonic structure--but I would bore you to tears with all the details. Besides, you played the Beethoven sonata from memory yourself."

"Oh, I don't think of it as memorising notes, really, so much as remembering the sound and the feeling of it. After I understand what it's supposed to sound like, my fingers just know what to do. And it is a slow and simple piece, not with thousands of notes flying by. You have a remarkable, special talent, and I'm sure you will be a great violinist, or scientist, or whichever you decide."

"My feeling is that it is the choice, not the profession, which will be most difficult."

"You'll make the right choice. You will be successful at whatever you choose to do, because you will dedicate yourself wholeheartedly to it." Her eyes turned toward me briefly, but then angled down and fixated on my shirt-cuff. "I wish I had that kind of perseverance."

"What nonsense. You possess everything you need. It is merely a matter of execution! Find your resource, take control of your faculties, and use them as you see fit."

Her faint smile disappeared. "We are not all made of the same fabric, _maestro_. Mine is more delicate than yours, and it has been torn too many times."

I was unsure whether to smile or to sympathize, and failed at both. "Oh, _mademoiselle_," I implored, half seriously, "please accept my apology. Don't let the sun set before its time and darken your lovely face. Besides, most great artists suffer from moods. It seems to be a requirement for a painter to possess as many despairing emotions as paints and brushes."

"I may have all of those, but I certainly will never be a great artist--"

"Why shouldn't you be?"

She gave a little toss of her head and something like a laugh danced in her throat. "Come now, be serious, and don't tease."

My tone became low and soothing. "I could not be more in earnest. What one wishes and works for, one becomes. Do you really desire it?" 

Her lips were parted, but no sound emerged.

"Do you?" I urged, with an fervour that surprised me.

Jane's mouth softened, and her eyes met mine. For a moment, I could clearly see lines of gold darting through the pools of green iris; her openness and vulnerability were nearly tangible. I was completely unprepared for the intimacy radiating in the small space between us, and I instinctively took a half-step backward. Then her freckled lids dropped, like a curtain falling.

"Do you want to know what I really wish for?" she whispered. 

I nodded a reply even though her eyes were downcast; it seemed that she could sense my affirmation.

Her eyes lifted upward to the sky with a squint against the glare, and a wistful look darted across her face. "I would be quite happy to put away my easel, cover my walls with beautiful pictures by the great masters, and spend my days gazing at them, admiring their genius."

I stared in disbelief at her peaceful, far-away expression; I felt I was witness to a needy, hungry child asking for a Christmas present of tinsel.

"And that will fill your days with contentment?" 

She failed to notice my incredulity. "Of course, I will have my husband and children to occupy my attention, and the home itself. My greatest wish is to fill a home with art and music, and encircle it with gardens and paddocks, so that anyone may enter and surround themselves with beauty." Her eyes searched the rows of flowers. "If my husband will provide a suitable income and good disposition, I will be happy to create a haven for him."

"And will you ever leave this palace?"

Her wandering eyes froze. "Are you mocking me?" 

I held my tongue for a moment and considered my words, shuffling a foot in discomfort. The thickening atmosphere seemed to pull my boots backward.

"You are bringing to mind the wife of Dr. Smith," I offered. "She rarely sees anyone, and never leaves her palatial estate. But money and décor do not automatically produce an idyllic home, and I suspect that no haven exists in that house."

Her mouth formed a slight frown. 

"The Smith's? Do you know them?"

My toes clenched, but my shoes stayed in place. "I have not met them, no. But I have an interest in the problem they are facing with their dangerous pond and its attraction to boys." 

She stood, unmoving, and then spoke in a hushed, embarrassed voice. "It's curious that you should mention Mrs. Smith. I have a feeling about that house that I can't describe. I believe there is something dreadfully wrong there."

In spite of myself, I released a sigh at the welcome change of subject. 

"Even in the absence of facts, this is a reasonable assumption. Indicators point to an unusual predicament. But I can't put my finger on the essence of the problem."

I could see, almost as if in a mirror, my face hardening and eyes narrowing; I pictured the distant house surrounded by ragged trees, and the deadly pond shadowed by a peering tree-house. After a brief silence, I realised that Jane was staring at my puzzled face as I gazed into the distance, lost in thought.

"Are you still thinking about Mrs. Smith?" she asked, amazed by my sudden reverie.

I shook my head. "I'm going over each fact, one at a time. They must all fall into a logical pattern, and this has to lead to an answer."

"What facts?"

"Five boys in eight years have drowned in Smith's pond," I intoned, my voice steady and hard. "They swim there because of pennies placed on the bottom to entice them. They gain entry only because someone is signalling to the boys, using a tree-house and window curtains to show when the dogs are penned up. Who is this person or persons, and why does he or she want the boys to swim in the pond?"

"Perhaps someone is signalling for help."

I glared at her, annoyed by the interruption in my train of thought. She was gazing earnestly at me.

"Help?"

"Perhaps Mrs. Smith is trapped, held prisoner on the estate, and she is desperately trying to attract someone who can help her."

I considered this possibility for a moment. "If she is trapped, how could she pen the dogs, obtain a ladder, climb into the tree-house and draw the curtains?"

"Someone could do it for her. Perhaps she is unfaithful to her husband, and her lover is assisting her without her husband's knowledge."

My eyebrows furrowed to their deepest point. "Are you being quite serious? And how would raggedy boys solve this romantic entanglement?"

Jane's eyelids dropped. "You're mocking me again."

"You haven't made a single observation, and you are conjuring fantastic schemes about the infidelities of Smith's wife!"

Her voice shrank to a murmur. "Why are you acting this way?"

I passed a hand over my forehead, attempting to smooth the wrinkles away. "I should be able to put the facts together, and the answer is eluding me. I can't even devise a theoretical explanation--"

"How do you know about pennies in the pond, and a tree-house, and signalling?"

"I have been to the pond; I've seen it with my own eyes."

"You went there? You went...in the pond, and..."

"Well, of course. How else would I know? When I found the rock inside the hedge--"

"You were trespassing?"

I folded my arms, with a slow burning anger building inside my chest. Jane gazed at me in bewilderment.

"Does anyone know?" She started rubbing her hands tightly, as if in pain. "Does Madame know you were--" 

"Why should she know? She wouldn't be of the slightest help. In fact, the mere existence of that couple is a detriment to almost any pursuit, and they are the very example of the truism, What they do not know will not hurt them.'"

She considered this statement until its appalling ramifications became clear to her, and revulsion consumed her once pretty face. 

"And--" her voice was shaking--"are there other things that they don't know?"

I wondered, for an all-too-brief moment, if there was any possibility of altering the disturbing course of this conversation, and then shrugged. 

"Certainly," I stated, with conviction. "I am not one to allow anyone's misguided personal perspectives to stand in the way of pursuing knowledge, and I never will."

"But how could you?" Her face contorted in horror. "Why would you do something like that?"

"I believe that you are over-reacting. How is this a crime? Aside from the trespassing, of course--a minor infraction."

She struggled to bring the words to her lips, as if they were of unspeakable evil. 

"You have lied to them," she whispered.

"It is not a lie. It is an omission of unnecessary detail."

"They are your family! They deserve your truthfulness. Why would you do something behind their backs?"

"And you have no secrets from yours?"

She drew in a sharp, distressed breath, and her eyes welled with tears. "I was punished enough for my jumping! I wouldn't dare hide anything again."

I spoke in an even, low tone. "There are some things that people don't need to know, Jane. In fact, there are many things which one should keep to one's self. This avoids a great deal of misunderstanding and pain."

She drew her lips in tightly. "So you endorse the use of deceit when it suits your purpose."

I swallowed and took a deep breath, letting it out in a hissing half-whisper: 

"If it were not for solitary and secret experiences, I would not have lived half my life. Should I agree that smoking a pipe after a meal is offensive, even though I enjoy it immensely? Or that boxing is a base and undignified pursuit? And must I believe that acting in the theatre is an unacceptable abomination, just because I am told so?" My voice rose to a shout. "And, of course, that music is fine for amusement but should never for a moment be considered as a profession?" I struggled to lower my voice. "When the voices of righteousness oppose your strongest and truest feelings, you must question their virtue."

"But if...if we..." she gasped and choked out the words--"...were...married, I could not possibly tolerate any clandestine pursuits, or secrets of any kind, from myself or anyone else. Lying is...an unforgivable thing."

"Consequently, this would prohibit the state of marriage for myself," I retorted, raising both hands to rub my clenched forehead. "I must refuse to live according to other people's expectations, even yours. The world is too large for me to spend my days in a gilded cage." 

I pressed an index finger deeply into each temple, my face surely resembling a horse's head fitted with blinders. Framed by my hands, the rows of flowers drooped in the afternoon sun, their petals fluttering and swaying gently, seeming to rise and fall with the rhythm of Jane's laboured breathing. 

"You must understand this: I am not committing evil acts; I don't want to hurt anyone. But I cannot understand life without living it! I want to make some contribution to art, or science, or mankind; I don't know just what or how yet. It is important that I explore all of the options, without arbitrary restrictions, before I decide. You see?" 

There was no reply. I sighed deeply, feeling as though I had somehow scolded a harmless puppy, and softened my tone.

"I am sorry, Jane," I said flatly. "Please forgive my petty indiscretions and my selfish ways, but at least my character is my own, and if it is what God gave me, then it cannot be in vain. Say you will forgive me."

Only the sound of breathing, or the wind, assailed my ears. 

"Jane? Come now, you are not in distress, are you?"

"I forgive you," whispered a tiny, trembling voice.

Fingers still obscured my shaded eyes, but I thought I saw the flash of a lone teardrop fall and strike a fold of Jane's yellow skirt before her face turned away.

I lowered my hands from my eyes and looked back to the windows of the sun-room. Past the glare on the panes I could see Madame deftly drop her head and pretend to study a book of Chopin _etudés_. 


	6. Chapter 5

****

V

The week-days went by in a warm haze of aimless reading, neighbourhood wandering, and hours spent entertaining random thoughts in the more rarely-visited rooms of the house. A house, even an ordinary one, is a fascinating construction; every beam, window and plank of flooring has a place in the scheme of a physical enclosure, and the layout of rooms and furnishings become a puzzle of three-dimensional space; they are adjoined and linked rather like pockets of inter-related knowledge in the brain. It is remarkable how one's thoughts can reverberate more creatively in an unfamiliar series of rooms than in a studied, well-accustomed one. 

On the day of the dinner party the weather was so enticing that I spent some hours sounding the strings of my violin behind a tree in the garden. My fingers and bow moved freely but my conscience was seized by a tiny, rueful voice, whose pleading ran through my head like a haunting fragment of melody: 

__

You have lied to them... You have lied...

The singing strings would not drown out the tiny voice, so I countered, defensively, with a voice of my own: Was it necessary--or even possible--to make a concession to honesty while remaining true to my pursuits? 

__

You have lied... You have lied...

Scientific inquiry makes no allowances or excuses, my inner voice declared. I may have engaged in some slight deceit, however, I did not feel as though I'd harmed anyone; to the contrary, my intentions were completely valid. And if they cannot accept the truth, do they still deserve to hear it? 

But the modest, gentle voice persisted, and took on a new shape: 

__

Can you pursue justice and truth by being untruthful? 

Late into the afternoon, when the voice would give me no peace, I felt a queer, unshakeable urge to share my thoughts. I jerked my taut body up from the ground and rubbed the tree-bark imprint out of my back. As I loosened the bow and tucked it away, a nameless longing swept through me and called for immediate fulfilment, a need which I was hard-pressed to identify; it struck me rather like a craving for some forgotten favourite food. This unknown deprivation took shape as I lay the violin snugly in its case: I recalled a distant memory of tugging on a silver-haired housekeeper's soiled apron, and a whispered confession in her lowered ear, asking for her trust in keeping the hidden jars of insects under my bed a sublime confidence. My unkind heart sent a jabbing, mournful ache through my chest, reminding me that this benevolent, understanding woman was no longer with us. However, the impulse would not die, and to satisfy its hunger I made an acceptable substitute of person. 

Madame was easily found in the sun-room standing in front of her massive wooden easel, one which dwarfed her quite comically. She was draped in a stained cotton apron which obscured her diminutive figure and she stared at a largely blank canvas, washed over with yellow ochre and faintly marked with pencil. I requested her attention and begged that we speak very quietly, to her mystified agreement. 

"An invitation for this evening was extended to me some time ago, but I have been reluctant to mention it," I whispered into her ear. "On the pretext of solitary study in my room, I am going to slip out after tea and appear as violinist for a dinner party, which is to begin after sunset."

"A dinner party," she whispered in response, thoughtfully, her eyes scanning the canvas. Then she muttered, "_Ou est le dîner_?"

"It is at the home of Dr. Smith. I need you to keep this to yourself, without fail. Don't mention it to anyone, please, especially the master; I want to avoid any possibility of his displeasure."

She was understandably astonished, not just by my plan of action, but by my act of admitting it to her. She stood inert for a moment, then motioned for my ear, leaning carefully to avoid touching my clothes with her apron, and I inclined my head toward her lips.

"I have a bit of a confession of my own, my dear," she rasped into my ear, a bit louder than I would have liked. "Years ago, one afternoon, you told me that you were going to your room to lie down because you were feeling unwell. Later that evening I knocked on your door, because you had borrowed a book I was reading, and I wanted to get it back. When you didn't answer, I went in very quietly, tip-toeing to the table, reaching for the book. I could see the outline of your body under the bedcovers, and the dark swirl of your hair on the pillow." I shook my head and opened my mouth to question her narrative, but she held a finger to her lips. 

"Let me explain, _mon cher_. As I closed my fingers around the book to lift it, it slipped through and went crashing to the floor, bouncing off the table as it went. I cried out and scooped it up, then turned to the bed to offer an apology, when I realised that you had not moved--not even a start. I stepped to the bed and stood over it, looking for breathing, horror striking my heart. I slowly pulled back the covers. 

"Of course, you know what I saw. I saw a shirt, towels, handkerchiefs, and what must have been almost every piece of clothing you have, all bundled up into the shape of a sleeping man, topped with a brown wig. I stared at that figure for many minutes, thinking many thoughts, until I finally rearranged the bedclothes and left the room, closing the door behind me. It was quite difficult to concentrate on my book that evening." She pulled away, her eyes returned to the canvas, and her lips tightened into a wry smile.

"Ah," I offered, with some embarrassment.

"So, whenever you say you are going upstairs to your room and do not wish to be disturbed, I understand that perhaps that you are...not in your room at all?"

I turned toward her; she avoided my gaze, and I placed my hand on her shoulder. 

"Please, don't think the worst, it was all quite innocent--"

"No, no, do not trouble yourself, I have learned to accept it. And, whenever you are staying here with us, I have never again gone into that room without your consent. Really, it does not disturb me any longer, for I know that this is how you are. You never could stand boundaries--especially with a mind such as yours. If it were not for the necessity of the human body I am sure your brain would find a way to explore on its own." 

Her face was sanguine, but a great heaviness weighed down her smile, and her gaze drifted to the floor.

I promised her, with all sincerity, that I always used my best judgement and had never done anything to cause her shame. I asked her to swear, however, that she would conceal my actions from the master of the house, and she solemnly agreed. I thanked her warmly and turned to go, when she placed a delicate but firm hand on my arm.

"Can I ask you something, dear?"

"Certainly."

"It's your own business, I know, but I was just curious as to what happened."

I shook my head, uncomprehending.

"Last Sunday, after tea. Between you and Jane."

My mouth set firmly, and I was struck by our difference in height as I raised my eyes and stared vacantly over the top of her head.

"You don't have to tell me, dear. I know that something is not well, but Jane wouldn't speak about it, and...well, I was just wondering if there is anything I can do to help."

"That is not necessary, but thank you."

She put on her best benevolent face. "I know it can be difficult. Sometimes young ladies can harbour hurt feelings over silly things, and I could help you to smooth things over--"

"It's really quite simple," I muttered, with tight lips. "I'm a bit on edge lately, with performing at the Smith estate tonight, and all of the things weighing on my mind. I'm sure that when it is over I'll be able to concentrate on, eh..." I took in a sharp breath, and let it out with a weary smile. "I will speak with her soon. Does that answer your question?" 

Her eyelashes flickered. "Tomorrow?"

"Possibly on Sunday, yes."

"You will let me know if there's anything I can do?" 

I gave a cursory nod, and took a step backwards. 

Madame produced her sweetest smile, raised a hand as if she were about to pat my head, and then turned away as she thought better of it.

—————

At the appropriate phase of the sunset I carefully went through my favourite back window, darted around the trees to a chosen spot down the road, and waited for Walker's cab to arrive, all the while avoiding the final struggling rays of sunlight. 

As I placed the scuffed spectacles on my nose and held my violin case tightly under one arm, I wondered why I felt the burning of apprehension in my stomach. Surely the prospect of performing would not cause me such great distraction. Recognition was unlikely, since--like the hermit that I was--I was not known on sight to most in this community, and especially because I had slightly altered my appearance with a simple use of my hand-made cosmetics kit (a relic of a brace of stage performances). As the approaching cab rumbled up the road, I reassured myself that Madame had never been known to be deceitful, nor had she betrayed any confidence to this point. And even if she did, the annoyance of the Master could likely be appeased by a cheerful appearance at breakfast, and the playing of a couple of his favourite country airs.

Before stepping up to Walker's cab I made a quick, internal promise: after this evening was over I would never again put myself in a situation which called for gross deceit, and would present an honest life to others and to myself. I wasn't entirely convinced that it was necessary--or possible--but the thought did settle my stomach for the moment.

—————

"You are going to have the time of your life here tonight," uttered Walker behind a wide, toothy smile.

His statement barely registered in my ears as I was steadfastly gazing at the dark, imposing front doors of Smith's mansion, clutching my violin case in both arms. As the door swung open, the light crept out and glared like a halo around the figure opening the door, and the shadowed face spoke:

"Who's there: friend or foe?"

Walker leaned forward and mumbled an elaborate reply, to which the dark figure nodded, and stepped back into the light. Walker eagerly moved through the doorway and I followed slowly along behind, as if stepping onto the stage of a strange theatre into a play where I knew no plot, characters, or lines. 

The setting was that of an intimate dinner party in a suite of large, lavish rooms, with enigmatic actors standing scattered in the wings, waiting to play their parts. I stood at Walker's side, briefly blinded by the burning points of the gas-lights (a rare thing in those days) and assaulted by intensely curious stares and whispers. I quickly recognised the shortish, solidly-built butler; he was the keeper of the well-fed dogs, and apparently as much at home providing drinks and chatting up the guests as tending the kennel outside. He directed us to a piano tucked in a corner as Walker begged pardon for our late arrival, and casually waved a bulging arm for us to commence playing. 

The guests numbered about a dozen and were all gentlemen; most of them displayed an ostentatious dress style, carefully and colourfully clothed, with every detail addressed, every gesture considered, and, I was sure, every comment contemplated. I scanned my music with one eye darting around the room, watching for the appearance of the evening's host. Even in the midst of a Bach suite it was not difficult to notice Smith's entrance--indeed, difficult to ignore. 

"Forgive me, gentlemen," announced a raspy but powerful voice from the far end of the room, "but I have been attending to the selection of the sherry." 

Everyone in the room swallowed their current statements, turned gracefully and beamed thankfully in his direction. I peered over the rim of my spectacles and pointed the scroll of my violin at his face as if taking aim, and with a curious half-smile, I beheld the commanding figure of this authoritative, aristocratic, and well-fed gentleman. He raised a dusty bottle in one hand, controlling the attention of each man in the room as a conductor before an orchestra. 

"It was a rather vexing problem, you see--it turns out that yesterday I drank the bottles I was to serve tonight!"

Our _Sarabande_ was nearly drowned by the cackling of forced laughter.

"Drinks all around--Bond, make sure everyone has a drink."

The butler moved quickly over to collect the bottle. Only after I lowered my instrument at the end of the third movement did I notice him again, cutting purposefully through the small crowd with our esteemed host at his side. Smith approached the piano with a widely stretched smile and penetrating gaze.

"Ah, I see we have a special guest for this evening?"

Walker twisted around on the bench and jumped to his feet. "Yes, sir, what a pleasure to see you again! Thank you for allowing me to return to your lovely home--"

"Yes, Mr. Walker, yes, delightful as always. Bond just informed me that we are having a little extra musical pleasure for our _soiree_ tonight." He peered at me with clear grey eyes. "And he is--?"

"Oh, this is a most talented violinist, who has had difficulty finding employment through no fault of his own, and was most interested in assisting me this evening. Mr. Holtz, the honourable Dr. Smith."

I nodded my respects, slightly taken aback by this powerful and strangely charismatic figure, who had an easy manner but a heavy and deliberate tone. 

"A pleasure, truly," smiled our gracious host. "Very nice indeed, Mr. Holtz. The music is marvellous, of course, but I hope you will favour us with something a little more, hmm...vivacious, later on?"

"Certainly, sir," nodded Walker. "Mr. Holtz can play anything you like. He is most capable--"

"Lovely. And, of course, something by a French composer. I just love anything _au Français_. Wonderful. I'm looking forward to more." Dr. Smith swept away, leaving a faint scent of sherry behind him.

"Ah," sighed Walker, resting on the bench, "I'm glad he likes you."

"Mmm," I assented, watching Smith disappear behind a group of chattering men. 

I took my position and nodded for Walker to continue the suite, as I gazed over the fingerboard around the dark, glittering room. The capricious gentlemen sipped sherry with arched brows and tittered joyfully at private jokes; nothing more exhilarating occurred, and my role was limited to the part of an intensely curious observer of obscure conversations. 

The bottles of sherry were soon empty, and the tottering guests took their seats at the long dining table, where they were deluged with wine, soup, Pagannini, codfish, pheasants, Mendelssohn, pudding, and a Senallié sonata. At the passing of the port I took the opportunity to lower my bow, and the violin dropped to my waist; I begged Walker to continue playing while I took a much-needed rest. I shook my arms wearily as I laid my instrument carefully in its case underneath the piano, shifted quietly toward the back of the room, and eased through the doorway. 

I then moved swiftly through the passage, my "fatigue" gone and my blood pulsing, searching for any signs of a private room in the dim light. A large, dark staircase opened up before me as the rumbling piano chords and murmuring voices faded into the background. 

Striding firmly but quietly up the stairs, with a careful glance behind me, I began to breathe a little easier, and as I reached the landing I headed for the first door that took shape out of the shadows, not trusting that I had escaped unnoticed. I closed the heavy door behind me, which was thankfully silent. In the dim moonlight I could sense more than see that the walls were covered by bookshelves; I was in a small library. This was a fortunate find, in that it would allow me to investigate Smith's tastes and interests, possibly even find some private papers. 

I stepped forward, my boots sinking into a deep-coloured rug as I moved toward a large, isolated desk. It was smooth and bare, with locked drawers. The window's light fell on a large bell-pull hanging near and softly lit the looming bookshelves, where a rolling ladder was poised and ready for use. I stepped carefully over to the shelves, which were filled with dust-coated old volumes, seemingly untouched for years. The shelves spread out above my head, and the ladder invited me to climb; I ascended smoothly and very slowly, my breath held, listening for creaks. 

The books on the highest shelf were more recent--my touch revealed no dust upon them. The weakness of the moonlight prevented close investigation but a handy match from my tobacco pouch did a fine job of illuminating the subject; I pushed my spectacles low on my nose and scanned over the unfamiliar titles. 

Remarkably, some of the bindings had been covered over with a paint near the shade of the book's cover, revealing only one or two words. On one volume I could see that the paint had chipped away and more lettering was revealed; I leaned forward and peered at the book's spine at a few inches' distance, close enough to discern the faint letters: _Donatien de Sade_.

"Have you discovered something of interest, Mr. Holtz?" 

Smith's commanding, unmistakable voice rasped across the room. 

I froze in place; my warm breath swept against the books with a _hiss_ and brushed back over my lips. The match flickered and expired.

"My library contains some novel items, as you see." 

His voice was strangely friendly and revealed no anger at my intrusion, but his consonants were slightly softened by alcohol. I heard his padded steps move behind me, and his lamp threw a shaking, stabbing light onto the dark shelves. 

"Ah, yes!" said he. "You must have spotted the manual by the Marquis de Sade. A magnificent example. You are an admirer of the work as well, Mr. Holtz?"

I raised my head slightly, and realised that my mind was unusually and uncomfortably blank. "I am not entirely familiar with its contents," I remarked, in my heavy, halting German accent. 

"Oh? But surely you must know of its--intent." Smith's voice grew colder. "Do you follow any of his practices?"

My brain spun around, searching for an answer. As I gripped the ladder and stared at this deliberately obscured binding, the painful error of my judgement struck me--not as a logical problem, but as a quiver in my stomach. The nature of this text was an utterly unknown entity, hidden away in the deep shadows of the bookshelves, and the name _Marquis de Sade_ echoed faintly but uselessly in my ears.

Smith offered quietly, "Of course you are familiar with the description of the fried eggs, eaten with a fork, off the buttocks?" He guffawed, a brief rise in his voice, then continued in a low tone. "This is my favourite way to have breakfast in bed."

My mouth opened, my eyes still staring at the name in front of me, but all that left my lips was empty breath. 

"Have you no opinion of the book, Mr. Holtz?" His voice contained a hard, probing edge.

It occurred to me that my position as a native German speaker provided a fair excuse for my ignorance. "I am not sure zat I understand..." said I, with appropriate hesitation.

"Haben Sie keiner Meinung über dem Buch?" replied Dr. Smith, smoothly.

That having failed, I decided that English was a less convoluted way of approaching the problem.

"I...I have not read it," I offered, trying to convey a casual air, but betraying the growing panic in my chest.

I could sense my host's forehead wrinkle with puzzlement. "You haven't? Have you not had the opportunity? Surely it has been translated from French to German. Perhaps I could read some selections to you, in private. Perhaps," he purred, "I could have some of the activities demonstrated for your benefit, such as the use of--"

"I have not desired to read it!" erupted from my lips. 

I know that you must wonder: why could I not pretend, why could I not continue the charade? Please remember that I was young and inexperienced, and my methods were undeveloped. Shock had infected my brain, and my desperate mind failed to grasp a single scattered thought. 

"Then," spoke Smith, with an ice-cold tone, "why are you here?"

The horror of discovery was overshadowed by the fear of losing control over my mind. I could say nothing--do nothing. The disturbing silence grew longer, and worsened the turmoil in my head until the book in front of me appeared to pulse like a living, threatening thing. 

Then I heard a noise like a growl, a deep rumble from within the man standing behind and beneath me. I turned my head around, and as he saw my panicked expression, his face distorted with anger, with burning eyes staring through me. The polite and friendly façade of the gracious host had disappeared, replaced by the visage of a demon. 

"Who are you? Were you sent by the council?" His voice smouldered with fury. "You have some reason to suspect me or my guests of some--offence?" 

Everything was wrong now; everything was hideously wrong. It took all of my power to return his stare. 

"You certainly do offend me," I declared, with a slight tremor in my tone.

He whirled around and moved to the desk, setting down the lamp and pulling a key from his pocket. "You may like to think--" Smith spat out the words as he unlocked the drawer-- "that you know what is normal and what is abnormal. Well, my friend, it is all a matter of taste." 

Suddenly, in the context of this depraved lunatic, a vision of drowned, battered boys made sense. Exactly what this entailed, my mind refused to elaborate; but its truth would not be denied.

"I don't believe," said I, quivering, but with equal venom, "that murder is a matter of taste."

Smith stopped, looked up at me, and smiled grimly. In the glare of the lamplight I imagined I saw his face become red as blood. He thrust his hands into the drawer and lifted out a large, shiny knife, lifting and pointing it between my eyes as though aiming a pistol. 

"Come down, Mr. Holtz," he commanded. "Come down now, and not another word."

I turned to face the shelves, and felt one foot at a time down the rungs, sliding my trembling hands deliberately down the rails. As I descended I heard the jangling and scraping sound of metal objects being removed from the desk drawer. I attempted to retrieve control of my emotions and convince myself that the situation was far from impossible; the other guests were fully aware of my presence in the house, and I doubted that Smith would be so careless as to threaten my life in such a situation. I considered the options available for escape. 

These options narrowed, however, as he quietly spoke to someone who had just entered the room, apparently summoned through Smith's use of the nearby bell-pull. As both of my feet touched the floor Smith commanded me to keep my hands on the rails. I felt the other man press his body behind me as he reached over my head, took hold of my wrists and pulled my arms behind me. His strong fingers grabbed my sleeves and jerked the coat off my arms, and I felt his boot push it down around my ankles. 

"Turn around," Smith ordered. 

I heard the strange metallic jangling sound again, and hesitated to move. 

"Now," Smith hissed, impatiently. 

I complied, and twisted to face them. The small man before me--Bond--was muscular and blonde-haired, with the pink radiance of a young boy, though the deep lines in his face betrayed his age to be over thirty. He held a pair of rusty hand-cuffs.

"Hold your hands together," barked Smith.

Bond's hollow gaze focused on my outstretched hands as he snapped the hand-cuffs over my wrists. I held my hands out twisted and clenched but he squeezed my fingers closed, forcing the cuffs to their maximum grip. I, in fact, drew in my breath and winced to emphasise the painful pressure of the cuffs (a bit of acting, which seemed appropriate) and Smith appeared very pleased by my discomfort. 

"My friend," he spoke slowly, enjoying the words: "I would now like to give you a taste of my own medicine."

Smith padded across the rug, the point of the long knife moving directly toward me; I tensed and braced my legs for a struggle. He slowly lifted his free hand up to my chest, and wrenched open the top button of my waist-coat, moving smoothly down as he pried open each one. He then placed the knife on my right shoulder, slid it toward my neck, and suddenly pulled upward--ripping through the fabric and closely avoiding taking my ear away with it. The small man dodged expectantly as Smith moved to repeat his trick on my left side, and then pulled away the pieces of the garment, dropping them to the floor. He stared closely into my face; his eyes were glazed and unfocused.

"A shame to ruin it. But, if you spare the rod, you spoil the child."

Bond grasped my wrists and dragged me to the middle of the room; he pushed my hands to the carpet, threw me to my knees, and then moved behind me. I heard a faint tinkling sound from the desk and looked up, catching a glimpse of Smith as he lifted a tangle of long cords wound into a circle, comprised of strips of thin leather and small metal beads. Smith moved behind me as he whispered an instruction to Bond, and then stood to my side, just within my vision. He cradled the knife in both hands and slowly twisted it, watching the point of light move up and down the blade. 

I was unsure whether to plead for mercy or laugh out loud--everything now appeared to be comically desperate. I simply took a deep breath and braced myself for the expected impact. But no one moved; no noise was heard save for the shallow beat of my heart. As I waited, my chest tight with tension, I focused my vision through the hazy spectacles and onto the ornate rug beneath me. It was very soft and my knees sank comfortably into it. I stared down, kneeling stiffly, listening to the soft scraping of metal beads one upon another, wondering when the whip would fall. Lamp light fell sharply across the rug; the unusual colour patterns of gold and purple on a red background were intricate and distracting. At last, I released my breath and relaxed the tension in my back--and was hit with a hundred tiny fire-bullets as the crackle resounded in my ears. 

I drew in a tight and painful breath as my fingernails dug into the carpet. This was more than I had expected. Another blow fell--the loud _crack_ shot into every nerve of my body, and I felt the immense power of the man's arms behind the bite of the metal beads. The sensation was deep; it penetrated far beneath my skin and stopped just short of flooding into my head. 

My mind raced at this bewildering state of affairs. As you may expect, my planned response would be to under-react to such treatment and stay collected, as it was in my power to do (my capacity to contain the expression of pain was always rather extensive). I instead followed another instinct and, to my own surprise, started in with an ever-growing series of wails and writhing as the flailing continued. In fact, I became quite caught up in my own performance, and the impact of the whip became less noticeable. I caught glimpses of Smith, who was hot with anger and possessed with pleasure simultaneously, and I knew then that the nature of this man was as dark as I could have ever imagined. 

As the beating went on, however, I began to lose clarity in my thinking, and realised that I had no more sense of time--I could not guess how long it had continued. Perspiration dripped from my chin onto the rug; the pain enveloped my whole body, and each lash shot through my brain like a chain of tiny firecrackers. Do not over-dramatise this, my friend--my threshold of agony is different from yours, rest assured. But I knew that the continued intensity of the flogging would affect me to a point that would prevent an escape and a successful conclusion. So I began to shudder intensely with each blow, and sank into the carpet, depicting a surrender to physical breakdown. As I shook the spectacles from my face and started to feign unconsciousness, Smith spoke hoarsely, "Stop--enough here. Take him upstairs."

My hands were seized by strong arms and I was dragged across the rug to the open door, where I managed to struggle to my knees enough to slide along the polished floor. My mind was too cloudy at the moment to worry about anything but the looming staircase and managing my floppy legs, which were undamaged but weak from tension. For a moment I tried to scramble onto my feet, but quicker than I could flinch Bond released my hands and seized my ankles, swung me around, and hauled me feet-first through the passage like a sack of writhing kittens pulled toward a river. 

As we approached the stairs, I focused my attention on the hand-cuffs, which were dulled from wear and abuse. Our odd procession did not decelerate but jerked up the wooden steps, where it was difficult to tell if the cracking sounds were emanating from the stairs themselves or from my rattling bones. Through the shaking of my vision I could see that the chain between the old cuffs was vulnerable and I directed some of the shattering pressure to my wrists. As I took a hard bounce, a chain-link burst--my hands flew apart as we lurched toward the top of the staircase. 

Before another instant passed all of the following rushed through my mind: If I reached out and seized Bond's legs I might trip him up, break loose and run for it. But, if I could escape, what would I be leaving with?--no facts, no evidence, only outlandish behaviour and vague suspicion. I could not leave until I discovered exactly what was happening in this house of madness, and why five harmless boys had died as a result. 

Frantically I held my hands together and looked upward to see if I had been discovered, but Smith was still forging ahead, and his assistant yanked me up the final step to the floor of the passageway. I twisted onto my back and let myself be pulled smoothly down the hallway as I managed to connect the broken links and squeeze them enough to continue the illusion of being cuffed--they should burst again with a concerted pull. I took several deep breaths and focused my mind as the blood, at last, returned to my brain. 

I was dragged through a doorway onto a ruby-red rug and dropped to the floor. Smith's shiny boots squeaked toward my head, hissed across the carpet, and came to a stop behind me. 

I twisted around and raised my eyes with frantic curiousity, trying to observe my surroundings; the bed-chamber was richly furnished, cluttered with jewel-coloured chairs, sofas and draperies, gently illuminated by the flickering lamp in Smith's hand. He fixed his narrow eyes on me and did not seem to breathe. I dropped my gaze and appeared as pathetic and physically damaged as possible, supposing that this was what he desired. 

Finally, he inhaled, and let the breath out in a command: "Take this, and wait outside the door. Leave us alone." 

The faint metallic rustle of the whip retreated behind me and the door snapped shut. I looked up; Smith set the lamp down on a dressing-table and brandished the long knife in his left hand. He began to pace slowly around me, speaking very quietly, almost to himself.

"I could take care of you--oh, certainly I could. A little fun, then a blow on the head, and it would all be over. Of course, your drowning would be rather more difficult to explain than the others." He looked around the room. "But perhaps I can silence you after all." 

He stood still, lost in thought for a moment, pointing and twisting the knife in my direction. Through my half-shut eyes I could perceive the intensity of the dark passion that suddenly gripped him. His face flushed from the excitement of it. I could not imagine what that idea might be, even as he walked over to a small backless settee, and pulled it away from the wall. 

"Make yourself comfortable," he instructed, gesturing at the settee. I struggled over and sat awkwardly on its edge. 

His voice grew deeper as he intoned, "Lie on your stomach." 

As I complied, he took my hands, held them to the floor, and in one motion, lifted a leg of the settee while moving the chain underneath, and released the leg to the floor with a loud thump. In his eyes, I was now effectively trapped, while I knew, or hoped, that one determined motion would break the chain and release me from this awkward position. 

He walked smoothly over to the door, and I heard him turning the key in the lock. 

"We don't want to be disturbed, do we?" 

I glanced upward, and before he moved away I noticed that both the key-hole and his hands were empty. 

"You are not one of us, my friend, although you were pretending to be. And why?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Because you suspected that something...something unsavoury was occurring, and you believed it should be stopped." 

I heard his steps moving behind me as I stared down at the cuffs around my hands, the chain dragging on the rug. 

"Well, of course, you cannot approve of what you do not understand."

With a few sudden jerks, my right boot was pulled off. 

"Perhaps if you are more...experienced in our ways, you will not complain of our practices."

I then felt him seize my other ankle, and the boot soon hit the floor. For the first time in my life, I felt my reasonable mind slipping completely away--replaced only by a creeping horror, an unnameable frozen fear. I heard the rustle of clothing, and his coat sailed over my head and hit the floor before me. 

"Who can tell...you may even enjoy it!"

My body went ice-cold, as did my brain. In a moment I lost my strength, my ability to play-act, and my sense of logic. Desperation ate its way into every muscle, gnawing away my strength. The only way to recover was to think, to act, to speak--

"Did you torture all of those boys as well, before you drowned them in your pond?" I retorted, my throat clenched, my false German accent gone. I immediately realised that the answer to this question was one I did not want to hear, and felt my stomach knot as I pictured my cold body floating in the murky water, with a cracked head and a lifeless stare. 

Then I felt the point of a knife touch the base of my collar, pierce through my shirt, and start to travel slowly down my back. I felt the sting of my skin slicing open under the ripping fabric. 

"You can't do this," I cried into the thick upholstery, my voice resounding in my ears, my mouth pressed tight against the fabric.

"No more back-talk," growled Smith, as the knife travelled languidly over the ridges of my spine. "Perhaps you need something in your mouth to help keep you quiet. Hmm...I have something in mind."

"You can't--you can't keep me quiet about this! What about your wife?--does she know? You can't hope to keep your wife quiet any longer!" I sputtered threateningly, squirming with pain.

He took a moment, then laughed raspily from deep in his throat, until he sounded almost to be choking. 

"Oh my...my wife? My wife is standing outside the door, dear boy! And a handsome fellow he is, don't you agree? Ha!"

The knife hit the waistband of my trousers and stopped abruptly. "Ah," Smith whispered, "an inconvenience we shall soon be rid of..."

The noise that ripped from my throat drowned out the snapping of the metal links as the hand-cuffs broke apart, and the scream continued as I twisted my body around, kicking the knife out of my assailant's hand; a scream I hear echoed in the darkest moments of my darkest nights. 

The details of my escape from that house were never clear in my mind, and even now, after so many years, I wish that they remain so. The desperate slashing of the knife, the pain and terror on Smith's contorted face, the wet blotches of his blood on my sleeve, and the thump of his body onto the floor, possess the dark, hidden corners of my memory; to this day, in my nightmares, I still search his blood-soaked clothes for the key to that door; again, I run faster than my pounding heart should tolerate, with a red-throated blonde man staggering in the shadows behind me, and a never-ending staircase dropping down before me; the crowd of men swarm toward me staring with horror, as I stumble through the blur of lamp-light and push through the huge wooden barriers into the darkness, where I run blindly, swallowed by the blackness of the night. 

The questions, the same three questions run through my head repeatedly, and without cease--

How can I remove these cuffs from my wrists?

How will I find the strength to make it back home?

How do I explain...how can I tell...her?

As my bare feet churned against the black, coarse roads I could do nothing but consider the answers to these questions for the better part of an hour, an endless, eternal hour. And, in the waning hours of my life, I have too often been the slave of another question: if through the judgement of providence I were to be damned to Hell after my death, would eternity consist of this same one hour of my life repeated throughout the rest of time, down an endless road, in an eternal night--a night from which I will never escape?


	7. Chapter 6

****

VI

The dark and infinite path was finally ended by the obliging frame of a downstairs window, and lit by the pulsing flames from the red-stained shirt in my bedroom fireplace, which faded as the burnt fibres disappeared into the coals. The torn stockings absorbed most of the lamp oil from my raw, bare hands before they also joined the hot embers. My trembling fingers searched for a dressing gown in the waning glow, and, hastily covered, I at last fell into my bed, still damp and sticky from the washbasin's insufficient contents.

Then the blackness returned, lifted only briefly by a few unwelcome rays of sunlight across the bed-cover. 

The figure of a large woman briefly appeared in the shadows, but upon my mumbled explanation of a sudden illness, withdrew, and gloom again descended. 

—————

A flurry of knocking intrudes upon the silent void. Its rhythm is tentative, but its persistence is undeniable. It insists upon wakefulness, and I slowly, reluctantly, comply. Tightly closed eyelids attempt to squeeze away the fog while pieces of unidentifiable music swarm inside my ears, like fragments of a great symphony...

The fog is finally, rudely, swept away by the shifting of impatient feet outside the door. I inhaled with great effort and my throat croaked out a sound.

Waning sunlight struggled through the closed curtains and cast everything in the room in half-shadow. The door gently opened and a tray entered, closely followed by Madame in a muted blue dress with cream-coloured trim, bits of hair spilling around her head. The tray held a cream-coloured bowl with blue trim, bits of steam spilling from its edge. 

I shifted to sit up and managed to silence the gasp between my lips as slicing pains shot across my back. The teak tray came to a rest over my cramped, heavy legs; flexing them was like bending two tree trunks. The rolled-up cylinder next to the bowl, which I first mistook for a dirty towel, was actually a newspaper. 

Madame straightened up and cleared her throat with a small, ineffectual _ahem_. 

"How are you feeling, dear?" she asked, stiffly.

An unexpected memory flashed before me. A point that my violin tutor had made with repeated emphasis--and with sincere emotion--was that an effective, musical performance had the feeling of spontaneity to it, when the performer seemed to create the music out of the moment. Many times I heard him direct me to stop playing notes and start playing music. At this moment I could hear his voice whisper gruffly: _It is too rehearsed_.

My response to her words was only a rumble in my throat, and the sound caused me some alarm. I tried again. 

"Ah...I am..." 

The lingering haze around every object in the room brought a memory of tobacco smoke to my nostrils.

"...I...I would perhaps be improved by a brief smoke. Would you mind, terribly, if..."

Her mouth drew a straight, tight line. "Oh--of course. If it will help."

I twisted just enough to pull open the drawer and remove my pipe, while she twisted a piece of loose hair around her first finger. The unyielding wood of the drawer was unkind to my scraped, swollen knuckles.

"I hope you will take some soup, dear, even if you're not feeling well."

I took up the pouch and clumsily filled the bowl, impatiently packing in the leaves with my thumb.

"You've slept a long time, and you should have some nourishment, you know."

Awkwardly I felt around in the drawer for the matches, closing my eyes for concentration.

"And, I thought that you should hear about the news."

The box materialised under my fingertips. I placed the pipe stem in my teeth, and inhaled the sweet, slightly burnt aroma.

"They found Dr. Smith and his butler this morning."

My hands shook so that I failed to light the pipe with the first match. This affliction appeared to be contagious, for the lady's hand trembled against the twist of her hair-curl. 

"Found them?" I mumbled, while striking a second match.

__

Why, were they lost? chuckled a vile, covert voice within me. I bit into the stem and puffed deeply, so as to envelop and choke the demon. 

She twisted the curl to what seemed a breaking point.

"They were each stabbed." She took a step backward to avoid the wandering trails of smoke and added, "To death," as though her previous words had been insufficient.

I released a circle of smoke with a welcome sigh, but with a queasy stomach. My face flushed and a distinct feeling of drunkenness, chilled by dread, shot through every nerve in my body, a feeling I do not recall ever occurring before that moment. 

Madame's breathing sounded laboured, but then, she had always been adverse to tobacco.

"It's all in the evening newspaper," she offered, with a gesture toward the tray. "Do you want to read about it?"

"Oh, yes," I rasped, blinking heavily. "But I don't think I am in a condition to do much reading. Perhaps you could give me a brief synopsis."

"Well, eh, I don't know anything more, really, except that Dr. Smith and his butler were found this morning by the police. They were stabbed and bled to death, both of them, in the master chamber. The police think it is possible that the two of them argued sometime during the night, fought with a knife, and inflicted lethal wounds upon each other. That is all I know." 

She paused, during which I thought I could feel her stare into me, searching for a reaction. When none was found, she continued as though she were a nervous schoolgirl reciting before a master.

"Except for the two dead men, the house was deserted, with traces of last night's meal still on the table. The cook and the stable-hand have gone missing, and it seems that none of Smith's guests from the previous evening can be located. Inspectors are looking to interview anyone who was in the house, but...haven't found..." Her voice trailed away. 

I puffed with increasing vigour, squinting at the wall across the room. The opposite wall somehow appeared to be further from the bed than it had before.

"Remarkable," I muttered, almost with a smile; I felt a glimmer of lucidity start to flow through my brain. "The dinner party came to a most tragic end, did it not? I suspect that the police have their work cut out for them."

A long, quiet moment passed. The lady shuffled her feet anxiously. 

"So, dear, you are not well enough to come downstairs for the evening?"

"No, not nearly."

"Perhaps tomorrow? Perhaps you could...perhaps we could receive a visitor for tea tomorrow? If you're feeling better?"

I released a billowing cloud of smoke. 

"Yes, perhaps."

Madame nodded, and then sharply drew in her breath. 

"Did you have a fire in here last night?"

I quickly looked over. She was peering at the fireplace with great concern. 

"Em, yes, I--"

"Oh, my poor boy, you've caught chills. You really must have some soup, it will warm you up like nothing else. Now, I won't trouble you any more with the, em...you take some soup, and ring for Lisette if you need anything."

She stepped backwards, made a gracious half-turn and departed. I was most grateful that her good-night wishes were so succinct. 

After inestimable minutes the pipe ceased to burn, the soup ceased to steam, and I soon retreated into the welcome darkness. 

—————

Through the black fog the dreams came in bright colours, with menacing edges; swirling fragments of madness danced in my head and struggled to make sense. As the first haze of daylight appeared these visions stubbornly clung to life, but they were beaten down by the distant clinking of dishes and muffled barking of dogs, distractions which eventually chased them into the corners of my mind and the shadows of the room. 

Waking from this sleep was like breaking free from the power of a potent drug. I smelled the ashes of my pipe before I opened my eyes; the urge to smoke defeated my unwillingness to move. Whilst inspecting the smoke rings surrounding me I was disturbed to see the inflammation of my hands and wrists, and alarmed by the pulling of fabric against the crusted, oozing scabs on my back. These injuries seemed increasingly superficial, however, as I heard gentle footfalls approaching my door; I quickly drew the bedclothes to my chin. 

The carefully measured steps sounded like those of Madame, but the sound of rapid, nervously insistent knuckles on my door gave a jolt of incongruity. 

"Good morning," I called from one side of my mouth, the stem held by the other.

It was Madame who entered, with a quick, silent opening and closing of the door. She approached the bed with only a slight hesitation at the rings of smoke, with a newspaper tucked carefully under her right arm. The day's new sunlight clarified her silvery hair and deepened the many crevices in her careworn face. Her gaze darted around the room in a bewildered manner, as though she hadn't seen it for years.

"I think you ought to see this, my dear," she said softly, dropping the paper onto my chest.

An article lay in the centre of the precisely folded sheet. It read in part:

Close inspection of the scene of the crime reveals that both of the dead men were attended by several visitors soon after the assault, for their collars were loosened, a glass and snifter of brandy remained in the room, and many different bloody shoe-prints could be detected on the floor. It appears that some of the horrified guests tried to revive the injured men, to no avail, and fled in panic. None of the guests have reported the incident or revealed themselves to the police...

Another cause of concern is the disappearance of Mrs. Smith, who has not been seen since before the death of her husband, although her clothing and personal effects appear to be undisturbed... 

The drowning of the boys now appears to have been part of a plot of horrific physical perversion...The groundskeeper's telegram to the police claims that both he and the cook remained servants bound to secrecy because of Dr. Smith's threat of blackmail against them; police are currently searching for both men, who are considered to be suspect...

With the truth of the boys' murders now revealed, it is no wonder that Dr. Smith's acquaintances are desperate to conceal their identities...

The article rambled on regarding the determined efforts of the police force and their confidence that the details of the crime would soon be explained. I was relieved by their incompetence. Their imagination was limited, their useful physical evidence was obscured by well-meaning footprints, and their only witnesses were deceased or disappeared. The one important element that consumed my mind was--to my great relief--nowhere to be found in the article. I laid the newspaper on the table, exchanging it for the pipe. 

The lady's darting eyes were suddenly arrested and latched onto my languishing form. Her figure was still, with hands firmly clasped at her waist, but her searching eyes betrayed some powerful, questioning desire. It was not worth attempting to hide the state of my hands, for her eyesight was no longer as keen as it once was, and her vanity prevented spectacles. 

Her lips were pulled tight with tension. I expected the dam to burst before long, but not quite as forthright and suddenly as it did. 

"Is there anything you would like to tell me?" She spoke grimly, as if expecting a death sentence from a stern-faced physician.

I was forced to cut short a series of long, slow puffs on the generously smoking pipe. 

"Quite honestly, there is nothing to say."

Her face was frozen. "Nothing?"

I nodded, and drew a satisfying cloud of smoke.

"Are you telling me that nothing happened there?" she cried, her voice rising in pitch as it moved toward the brink of despair.

"Now then--calm yourself, your imagination is carrying you away. I said that there was nothing to say. If there was anything I could tell you, rest assured, I would tell you everything."

"You can't tell me? Are you involved with that horrible secret society?"

"Surely, you must be joking. I knew next to nothing about those people before I went there Saturday evening, and I am not part of any secret association, much less a sadistic one. You know me better than that."

"So, you don't know anything?" She spoke with a stammer, her throat shaking with panic. "You weren't there when the...you don't know anything about those awful people, or what happened there?"

"I went to play the violin, and that is what I did--I played the violin. I could tell you exactly which pieces I performed, if you would like to know."

Her eyes were still squinting with fear and doubt. "You played, and then you left?"

"That is correct."

"And nothing else?" she asked tensely.

I clasped the pipe and shook my head with an impatient grunt. "Are you going to persist in asking me the same questions repeatedly? I have told you--there is nothing else to say."

I resolutely returned the pipe to my mouth. Her fragile façade finally broke down; her eyes watered and her hands wrung helplessly. 

"You don't understand, dear--my nerves are at their breaking point! It would ease my mind just for you to tell me that you...you don't know what happened."

"Then I will tell you so," I said, coldly. "I certainly can't say what happened there last night, and I don't think anyone will ever be able to tell." 

She stood breathing, as if teetering on a cliff's edge with utter safety behind her and the most horrible chasm one step in front of her; her fears pushed her forward toward disaster, and her hope desperately wished to take my words at their face. Soon another thought came to her and, hesitantly, she cleared her mind of it.

"So, dear, your fever afflicted you at the party? Or..."

I puffed unconcernedly. "Apparently it came upon me on the way home. I was not feeling well after the dinner, left alone, and I walked a longer distance than I should have. And because I didn't wish to disturb the household, I came in through a back window."

After a moment a touch of relief glimmered in her eyes, though the chasm still yawned. 

"I take it that you're feeling better?"

"Nearly back to my normal self. I just need some time alone, thank you."

She wavered slightly, with a pensive brow. Then another terrible thought took hold of her tongue.

"But surely the police will be coming to speak to you at any moment?"

"No-one at Smith's home knew me and I did not give my name. There is no reason to stand shaking at the front door. Put your mind at ease about that."

Her face cleared for a moment, surrendering to the comfort of my voice more than my words. "You're not going to speak to the police?"

"There is no need."

"And what am I to..."

"What would you tell them?"

She reached a trembling hand to brush the wisp away from her tight eyelids. "I suppose that I would tell them that there is nothing to say."

"There is nothing to say."

Her knitted brow eased, but her narrowed eyes struggled desperately around the room, as if to put the last puzzle piece in place. Then she set her mouth resolutely, and took a long, deep breath to speak.

"If you're feeling better tomorrow, my dear, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind giving the piano a good going-over, because I'm having it tuned in the afternoon and I know you'll be able to tell if it's perfectly voiced."

I hate to admit surprise more than anyone, but I was taken aback by her sudden shift to an ordinary concern. I assumed that it was simply a test of my return to health, or possibly an excuse to invite a certain auburn-haired maiden to tea. 

"I don't feel that I will be well enough to receive any visitors tomorrow."

She did not hesitate. "Oh no, dear; I just want to ensure that the piano is tuned properly. You have a much better ear than I."

My swollen hands concerned me for a moment, but I decided that the temporary irritation was likely to disappear by tomorrow and that her appeasement was worth the discomfort of running over the piano keys.

"Of course--assuming that my recovery continues unabated."

She struggled to control her shifting eyes. "And, it would be lovely if you would like to go over the concerto once again, for I believe I could give a better performance the second time around, and it would sound especially nice with a good tuning."

I reached a hand up to take away the pipe, and stared down as the tiny smoke-curls created a thin fog on my chest.

"The violin concerto? I don't expect that I should be able to play it tomorrow."

"Oh, well, perhaps you would rather just touch upon a simple air or a sonata. Just to keep me in practice."

"No, I believe I will have to wait several days to pick up the violin again."

"Of course. Well, I will have Lisette up with your breakfast right away, so that you can get your strength back. You will certainly need it over the next few days."

I knew that my mind was still a bit weak from the strain but I was almost certain that I detected a note of sarcasm in her voice. The lady's face was lowered as she turned away, her expression reflecting nothing. 

The door closed. I held the pipe to my chest, and watched it slowly burn itself out. 

—————

I had little trouble devouring and clearing the generous breakfast tray which Lisette provided, and I put the pitcher of hot water to very good use. After dressing I sat down on the bed with a favourite book, but soon gave up the attempt to read and dropped it to the floor with a frustrated _thump_. Half-heartedly, my foggy mind ran over the events of the last week in turn, looking for dangerous loopholes. I found none of great concern, save one: that a French violin, with case and bow, had been found on the premises, left behind by some unidentified musician. 

I set my mind on the task of recovering my mislaid instrument. There were three probable situations: that it lay in the hands of the police department, who were clever enough to hold the card until they best determined how to play it; more likely, that the instrument case still lay underneath the piano, unnoticed by an intellectually deficient police inspector; or, that which I suspected was less likely, that the handsome Walker was kind--and fearful--enough to collect it before he departed. I considered a plan of action to visit the house or possibly renew my contact with Walker without arousing any suspicion, official or otherwise. 

These thoughts were so engrossing that they were scarcely interrupted by the distant sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, and my attention avoided the approaching steps until they coalesced into the sound of a man walking steadily down the passageway. 

My thoughts dissipated in an instant as the door burst open, and the Master stood in my doorway. 

I succumbed to the briefest moment of panic. Then I set my elbows firmly on my legs and touched my fingertips together, meeting his intense stare with a nonchalant gaze of my own. 

It was evidently time for his work-day break for lunch, which he often spent at home, but his appearance in my room was as shocking and as welcome as a fire in a theatre. His thinning, grizzled hair was dishevelled from a windy coach ride and swept over to the right. His audible breathing was due to his ascension of the stairs, and his narrow grey eyes, normally downcast and buried in a paper or racing gazette, were burning with agitation. They looked left and right, up and down, and then glared directly at me. 

"So," he said, with the greatest deliberation, "are you nearly well now?"

I nodded in the affirmative.

"But not well enough to play the violin, I suppose?"

It seemed a rhetorical question, and my reply was a slight laugh, closed tightly in my throat.

"Will you answer me?" he rumbled.

"One cannot answer an unanswerable question."

"Perhaps you could answer this one. Why did you go to the Smith house Saturday evening?"

Instead of surprise, I felt an inevitable pulling and swirling around me, like the rushing river's flow into the sea, and felt that I could do no more than search for a handhold to slow my journey. I lowered my eyes to inspect my fingertips and pressed my fingers together with enough force to bend them backward.

"So, she has confessed, eh? I regret that I placed her in such a position. I meant no harm by it."

"You meant no harm?" he burst out, his voice rising. "Why the devil did you go in the first place? What were you doing there?"

I looked up. His eyes smouldered like burning charcoal; my face hardened into a mask of stolidity.

"I will spare you the inconsequential details of the evening in question; there is nothing of concern to trouble you. Again, I regret that I have upset the lady and yourself. I apologise for my deceit, and assure you that it will not happen again. I hope that you will find it possible to clear it from your mind."

"Certainly not--your behaviour is inexcusable, and I won't have any more of your nonsense. I won't leave this room until you tell me everything that happened there."

My eyes were drawn to the comic slant of his thin, frazzled hair. 

"Is there some reason why you feel that I should give you this greatly detailed explanation?"

"Simply this: if you do not, I will tell you that you are no longer welcome in this house."

His hard, reddening face resembled an iron range holding a raging fire. I tightly folded my fingers together, pressing them into my knuckles. 

"Perhaps," I offered flatly, "since you are so insistent upon having answers, you wouldn't mind providing the questions."

"I want to know what happened!" he snapped.

"I believe that you read the papers. They had a fairly explicit description, which is certainly more than I could tell you."

"What did you do there? What did you see?"

"I saw a parlour, a dining room, and the scroll of my violin. These elements do not make an interesting story."

"You saw people there? Whomever you saw, you must tell the police."

"And why is that?"

"My God, boy, there are two men dead! You can describe who was there!"

"The police are reasonably certain that the two men killed each other, correct? I would not like to take the chance of misidentifying some innocent gentlemen who happened to be in the wrong place on the wrong night."

"That's for the police to decide, not you," he growled.

"Well, I don't agree on that point. If a man has a guilty conscience then perhaps it is for a higher authority to decide, and not anyone else."

The burning spread across his scowling face. "You have always seemed to think that you know what's best in every situation, and your decision is always final. I can tell you this: you are a nineteen-year-old boy, and you don't know everything."

"I would agree with you."

He ignored my statement. "You have something to hide, and you think you're going to hide it from me--that's where you're mistaken. You're never going to hide anything from me again. I've suffered enough of your lying and deceit. Why would you keep anything a secret unless you were in the wrong?"

"Ah, now there's where you make an excellent point. You think that I am wrong, but that is a subjective view."

"There you go again! You think--"

"In this particular case, I am not wrong," I said resolutely, my words resounding in the heavy air. "I will not tell you where I went, why I went, who was there, or everything that happened. I will not discuss it, because that is the right thing to do."

"You must be mad to speak to me this way! You intentionally deceived me, you gained her agreement, and now that you have been found out you refuse to co-operate! It is obvious that you saw something terrible there that night, or you would take out your violin on the spot and play the Londonderry Air' for me."

His bitter words lingered in the air. I stared at him for a moment, convinced that his mind was gone. Then the rushing water flowed and pulled at me again. 

"My violin?"

"That damned violin is not here. She realised that it wasn't on the piano, so she started combing the house for it. She said if it's not in this room--and there's no place to hide a cat in here--that it is not in the house. The poor woman is hysterical. She keeps saying: That violin is like his right arm! Why did he leave it? And why won't he tell me?'"

I was consumed with amazement. My mouth opened and then curled into a slight smile, even as my breath became shallow and strained. 

"Yes...very clever, indeed. I commend her ingenuity."

He took two steps forward, and his chest loomed over me; his ruddy face and cold grey eyes bore down with incredible fury. 

"And since you have no apology or explanation for it, it seems only right! Perhaps you have received your just punishment, after all. Since Fate has deemed for you to lose your precious instrument--which I paid for, make no mistake--it seems befitting that you should never play the bloody violin again. And as far as I am concerned, you never will!"

I gazed up at him, my tight lips slightly parted, my rapid, weak breath passing through silently. There could be no response, no thought, no feeling. There was nothing to say.

"Furthermore, you will stay right here in this room until the new term begins. I won't have you running around behind my back in this town any longer, nosing around in other people's affairs. You will go back to that university and make something of yourself, like your brother did: and not just some meddling, know-it-all musician."

He turned and thumped through the doorway, slamming it shut. I fancied that I heard a rushing sound in my ears and felt the water swirling around my neck as the footsteps lumbered noisily down the passage, and faded away on the carpeted stairs.

In the long silence, the rushing water slowly dissipated, and the beating in my ears subsided. My breathing deepened, and my heartbeat slowed to normal. I unclasped my hands and stood very slowly, twisting to lessen the effect of needles and pins jabbing into my back. Every biting barb of pain was obligated to make its point repeatedly and insistently, long after I told my brain that I had received the message the first time round. 

I focused outward. The window curtains were partly closed, and allowed only a sliver of light to pierce the hazy air. I glanced around the room at the empty breakfast tray, the book lying on the floor, the tobacco pouch, the ashes in the fireplace grate. My open trunk lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, a stack of books lay on the mahogany dresser, and a few pieces of clothing hung inside the half-closed armoire. 

I took easy, cautious steps in an effort to tame the line of ants marching up my back, and rubbed my throbbing wrists as I tidied the room. While collecting my pipe, tobacco pouch and matches, I noted that the pouch required refilling. As I carefully put on a waist-coat and jacket I made a mental list, then studied the window as I performed a quick visual calculation. I came to two conclusions: first, that the trunk was too large for the window. Second, that before the day was over I would never see the trunk, the university, or the window again, for as long as I would live. 

—————

You are fully aware of my subsequent history, or, if memory fails, I remind you that the last statement was not entirely true. We met, in fact, in the university chemical laboratory about five years later, so my conviction fell through on that one point. One cannot develop one's skills without the right resources! I practised many important skills in that chemistry lab; some were not without their hazards, as you know. 

You will also recall the passing of my dear brother about fifteen years ago, and the arrival at your home of a few of his possessions, at my request. I remember your positive remarks about the cuff-links, which you greatly appreciated, but I believe that you were less enthusiastic with regard to the piano, for which you had little use. In addition to my sincere thanks for your care of this piano over these many years, you now have a more tangible reason for its existence in your parlour. I can still hear its strings resounding with the perfectly flowing arpeggios of the sonata in C-sharp minor, played with the broken hands and heart of a girl with gold-green eyes. It is enough for my fractured soul to know that it stands--even in silence--in a safe and comfortable place, left untortured by my eyes.

It is true, by the way, that I never did play that Ricard violin again, but then again, the Stradivarius that I found in Tottenham Court Road for fifty-five shillings was a highly satisfactory substitute.

[_Epilogue_ to follow]


	8. Epilogue

****

EPILOGUE

__

The spectre of Holmes is no longer a secluded shadow in my house; now he is free to roam the daylight as he pleases, or to rest firmly in the Sussex ground. I would prefer that he take the latter choice.

The text contained in these pages was not easy to relate and I don't expect that it will be easily taken in. Perhaps the reader wishes to thank me for my decision to contribute to the understanding of a important and highly-regarded figure, or perhaps instead to curse my arrogance in exposing the intensely private memoirs of a defenceless, deceased man. Either way, please forgive me a few more words before I withdraw, for the sake of clarity.

Guilty conscience or no, a man would not write so many words if he did not wish them to be read. When of all of Holmes's words are added together--and there are more than 30,000 of them here--what is their sum? I have no intention of fighting for their validity or assessing their value, for although I am committed to their release it is not for me to decide their ultimate meaning. I am too subjective for critical judgement, and that is for yourself or others to contemplate. But I do know that the answers provided by this journal do not outnumber the questions lingering in my mind.

I still have questions--so many questions. And they are only answered with silence.

There is one question I can answer for myself. I realise that anything I may declare is obviously my own insignificant opinion, but I must be allowed a brief turn in my--and Holmes's--defence. I will simply state this: Holmes's words do not condemn him; they exonerate him. He withheld the truth not because he was careless, selfish or insensitive, but because he did not wish to destroy the lives of those he cared for. His silence erected a protective shield around himself, and in turn, his family, who were better served by his isolation, and his sacrifice culminated in a great gift to the world. His pain was his own, in long silence, until the threat of eternal silence brought pen to paper--one of the only truly selfish acts in his long life.

–––––

__

Now that my contribution is complete, all my energies are directed toward pushing it to the back of my mind. This was an easy enough feat for Mr. Holmes in his prime, but it is an agonising one for a wrung-out old woman. Emotionally, though inexplicably, I almost feel as though the scribbled, barely legible phrases of the bee-keeper's diary are my adopted children: carefully collected, laid out neatly, lovingly dressed with punctuation, and sent on their way into the world. They may be my only progeny, but I am not an over-protective mother, and I have confidence in their character and ability to stand alone.

My memory is occasionally unkind, jabbing my mind's eye with facsimiles of the scrawled, yellowed pages of that notebook, and even more cruelly, the images of those other papers tucked away among Dr. Watson's crumbling journals. Before my transcription began I noticed three similar notebooks marked with the title Bee-Farming Diary--dated 1927, 1928, and 1930--but these have never been opened, and in my present state of mind it is most likely that they never will, whether their contents accurately reflect their titles or not. The heavy, musty trunks with their mysterious inventory have been entrusted to a hidden, safe place, which, as far as I am concerned, is where they will stay until the end of my days.

Dr. Watson's face still smiles over the dusty piano lid. He is forever neatly framed and displayed, while Mr. Holmes suffers no such fate; never locked in a photograph, his spirit still pervades the air of my musty house, even though I believe the air is now more clear. I know that I made no promise to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I feel no shame of betrayal by placing his writings before your eyes. But I often wonder what John H. Watson, M.D., felt when he read Holmes's words (if he did, indeed, read those words), and I wonder if he felt ashamed of his betrayal--after all, he did not destroy the diary.

In closing, I feel that it is appropriate to give Mr. Holmes the last word, as he usually had in life:

Well, my friend, I hope you have not been too disappointed by this clumsy endeavour of mine. I swear, on my soul, that even now I can hear your confounded questions ringing in my ear, though you are many miles away--and indeed, when you read this, on another plane of existence. As these questions hang on your lips I hope you will keep this in mind: if I have left questions unanswered, it is with great deliberation.

You may now understand why my privacy permitted no unsolicited queries, much to the disappointment of you and your legion of followers; but, in your ignorance, all of your lingering, unanswered questions brought you no repercussions, and therefore no pain. I hope that you will not allow it to bring any pain into your wonderfully happy and cosy family life. Enjoy your time remaining--that is most important. You should find no difficulty in keeping my little exposé in the dark; it is a decidedly trifling episode, and should not arouse great interest after the passage of so many years. The problem merely exposed my lack of method, analysis and good deductive reasoning--in fact, the only significant feature of the whole affair is my shocking failure to recognise the obvious. You have a much richer and more impressive store from which to choose if you desire to reveal any more of my little adventures, or even if you wish to conjure one yourself. In all honesty, I no longer care.

I am quite surprised by my feelings upon completion of this manuscript; somehow, I feel that I should thank you. It is certainly remarkable how much my mood has improved since this miserable winter began. The stirrings of the innermost mind are not for us to understand, I believe--Dr. Freud notwithstanding. It is a noble attempt, but a futile one.

Now, perhaps it is possible for me to grasp a small moment of serenity in my final days. Although there are few remaining pleasures in this life, I must admit my admiration for Mr. Edison and my genuine appreciation for the existence of the Gramophone. Closing my eyes to the spinning disc, I can almost press the strings beneath my fingers, smell the rosin dust, and feel the vibrations of the wood beneath my chin as the bow glides in an exquisite arc; I can disappear between the faded lines of the score, and become manifest in fleeting moments of fragile perfection. Music connects us to the ubiquitous soul, through which we can hear the whisperings of the supreme and the infinite.

__

FINE


End file.
